Not My Name
by CloudCuckooLandHasAQueen
Summary: Molly Hooper is frankly quite sick of herself and the silly last name she possesses. One day, she simply gets a text and walks out of St. Barts, and doesn't return home. AU loosely following TV show before the fall.
1. Chapter 1

**So first real attempt at a story, and first real attempt at a Sherlock story to be much more precise I don't own anything, not even my own sweat. I'll update weekly at the very least. This was just a silly idea that had been bouncing around my head for a lot of various fandoms, not just Sherlock. It's the idea of very hidden depths in more characters. Molly is new to the canon, and it's almost like she doesn't exist, but she's important to this version of Sherlock anyway. I decided to try a strange depth with her, therefore OOCness is to be expected**

* * *

She wondered how long she would have to be small stuttering Molly Hooper for him. Four years was certainly enough to establish herself as such. Sometimes, she would wake up feeling very much like a Molly Hooper, and do things in a very Molly Hooper fashion. But others, she would wake up knowing she was not Molly Hooper, and still had to do those things as to not arouse suspicion for anyone who might be watching a silly invisible little pathology technician.

The name Molly wasn't too bad, but Hooper certainly wouldn't have been her first pick, but that was sort of the point. Her name couldn't be anything like her old one, which she loved far too much. It was rather overwhelming, suddenly having to change your accent and become a little pathologist named Molly Hooper, who had no living relatives and only a cat to keep her company. Then again, she had done it before, why was it any different?

Molly Hooper settled on her lab stool as she always did, and started to work on the stack of paperwork. She was efficient, but sometimes let silly daydreams and tangents brought on by Sherlock Holmes's visits would make her procrastinate it for a bit. The man she previously thought of appeared, making himself right at home in her lab, ignoring her for the most part. Molly would have wanted to engage, but the other girl did not want to. That was bad, to let her façade slip, even deep within the recesses of her mind. Sometimes she wondered if she would wake up, and only Molly Hooper would remain.

"Coffee?" She had to ask something like that, to get her mind back to it.

"Black. Two sugars."

Of course. For a man who hated routine, Sherlock certainly kept his coffee regular. That thought was too cynical for Molly Hooper. She didn't care, she got his coffee, and returned, and tried to engage in a stuttering conversation with him.

"Molly, please keep such thoughts to yourself, I'm working."

Damn it, how much longer did she have to wait? As she thought that, her phone, set on silence, lit up. Molly Hooper had friends, and the irregular hours she could work often lead to them accidentally texting her during the day. However, this was not a text for Molly Hooper. She kept her face completely placid as she checked the message, as if it were about a blind date or from her mother or something equally uninteresting. It was written entirely in code, which looked like gibberish to any who would read it, except those who knew it.

_Good Job. _

Without thinking, she texted back; _Am I done?_

Almost instantly: _Yes. You've been burned (sorry, but I don't think you're too torn up about that, least they don't want to kill you.) I left some supplies in the safe house, along with your payment._

_Thanks. My services are always available._

_I know, that's why they won't kill you._

With that, the woman who had called herself Molly Hooper for so long, stood up, and abruptly walked out of the room. Fifteen million pounds was a decent amount for having to make up a whole different life, just to do a little surveillance. It was sad really, that all this time, Sherlock Holmes didn't realize that Mycroft wasn't the only one watching him. Sadder still, was that he was tricked by the poor stuttering little infatuated Molly Hooper. If she hadn't known better, she would have laughed.

* * *

Sherlock found that something was amiss, and he removed himself from his thoughts in order to determine what exactly that was. He scanned the room, but found that Molly was strangely absent. When had she left? Her purse still remained so obviously she would return shortly. It was possible she just needed to use the loo. He returned to peering at the slide beneath his microscope, and skipped out when he was finished as usual.

"Found the killer!" He declared proudly to Lestrade.

"Oh, good, care to enlighten us?" John asked almost lazily. This one had been rather easy, and there had been little danger for John to revel in.

"The uncle, obviously."

Sherlock often forgot that what was obvious to him did not come naturally to others. He sighed, wasting energy explaining it more thoroughly, and as usual he was proved to be correct. John and Sherlock returned to the flat, John doing something boring while Sherlock opted for the violin. It was three days before John got the text from Lestrade.

_Have you see Molly?_

John repeated the question to Sherlock.

"No, of course not, why is he asking such a silly question?"

_No. Why?_

_She hasn't shown up at work, and her neighbor reported her missing. The cat's freaking out._

Again, John relayed the message to Sherlock. Abruptly, Sherlock stood up and the case began just like that, quickly texting to gather more information from the DI. Molly left her things behind, and strode out of the hospital doors of her own free will, but didn't return home. She wasn't impulsive, and wouldn't just leave her cat behind. There was something, some peculiar detail he thought he ought to remember but then didn't, not for a couple hours after learning of Molly's disappearance.

There was a text message. She reacted rather happily to a text message, perhaps one from a boyfriend who didn't turn out to be as charming as she hoped. Maybe he abducted her and- He suppressed a shudder or any other outward display of his discomfort with the idea even as he gave it to the DI.

**First chapter, very short I'm aware, but reviews (bad or possibly even good) will be met with invisible cookies of your favorite flavor. If you don't like cookies, then some other treat shall arrive at your mind's doorstep.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Cookies to the four reviewers of chapter 1! Yay thank you for your time and consideration, I really appreciate it. Writing another chapter so soon is kind of a fluke, but I got quite excited and felt I ought to post it. I do not own Sherlock, the usual yada yada otherwise I would have been graced with meeting the cast and have my detailed delusions of what they're like off camera completely shattered.**

Nothing seemed out of place in Molly's flat. It was oddly chilling to mill about it and find that despite Molly's rather optimistic personality, it lacked the cheer she so possessed. Yes, there were idiotic posters on some of the walls, and three shelves were dedicated to romance novels, but it seemed as if everything there wasn't lived in enough. There weren't photographs of her loved ones on the mantle, aside from one of him and John. Sherlock knew her life had been lonely, but not nearly to that extent.

"So she obviously didn't come home before disappearing." John stated, looking around, trying not to seem worried the way he usually did.

"There's no need to state the obvious."

"And she was perfectly fine when walking out of the hospital, so she must have been abducted or whatever somewhere between wherever she was randomly going and—"

"John please shut up for a moment, you're contributions are not helpful."

"Well fine then."

Sherlock proceeded to ignore the others, and went towards the last door of the flat Her bedroom was untouched. All of her clothes were still neatly folded and placed in the dresser or hung in the closet. The cat was currently placated, eating from the bowl that one of the inspectors had placed on the floor. Sherlock scanned the length of the room, and immediately strode over to the mattress, flipping it up over on its side. Much to his surprise, a Glock was there. It was a G30S to be exact, military grade. He stared at it blankly, trying to connect it with the little pathologist.

"So why would Molly of all people have this?" John held up the weapon, which was in a clear plastic bag for fingerprint analysis.

"It's not hers. Molly doesn't know how to shoot." Sherlock replied matter-of-factly, but another detail reached him, "But then why was it cleaned regularly?"

John examined it as well, "This is a good one, concealable, and it has a safe action. It was also loaded."

"Why would Molly have a unmarked pistol she could fire immediately underneath her bed?"

"Afraid of someone?"

"Obviously." What else could Molly be, but terrified? The Glock beneath the bed obviously couldn't protect her so far away from her

They had nothing. It was as if Molly had disappeared into thin air. She had no living relations, her friends all sang the same story as the people who saw her walk out of the hospital, there were no prints on the pistol and finally Sherlock was the last one known to speak to her. This was an uncomfortable trivial fact that was difficult rid himself of. He asked for coffee and then when she got it, he told her to shut up.

These thoughts weren't helping in trying to find her, and soon, he found himself taking a cab to her flat, and entering, sure that he was missing something in plain sight. Someone was there. He knew it instantly, and once he saw the black clad man Sherlock jumped him, knocking him to the ground and ripping his mask off. He was a fit, thirty-seven year old man with close cut light blond hair and icy blue eyes, a non-smoker, and probably an ex-soldier of some kind. Much to Sherlock's surprise, the soldier didn't struggle, and instead smirked up at him

"Well this is an interesting development. Didn't think anyone would try to find her."

For some reason this infuriated Sherlock, and he slammed the man's head against the ground, "Where. Is. Molly?"

"Very much dead, I'm afraid."

Sherlock found himself flung across the room, and when he came to, he was very much alone and with an excruciating headache that made it a little difficult to concentrate. He had never seen that man before in his life. Was Molly dead? Was the man lying? In that instant he knew, but the concussion brought on new confusion. He stumbled back, climbing into a cab to 221B Baker Street. John dropped his paper and jumped to his feet upon Sherlock's arrival.

"There you—oh what happened?"

"Man—in Molly's flat. He attacked. Says Molly's dead."

"And is it true?"

"Of course not!" Sherlock's snap came out stronger than he intended, "For some reason he wants me off of—ow—to think she's dead."

* * *

The view was beautiful from her high rise. Taking a sip of coffee, she stared out over the city where one could so easily hide in plain sight. There was no hurry to leave, not yet. Yes, Toronto suited her much better, but she needed to lay low. Eventually someone would be concerned enough about the stupid cat to find and report Molly Hooper missing. If Holmes missed his pathologist, leaving the city would be so much harder for her. She found it stupid, not being able to kill the cat, but he had worn a soft spot in her and briefly, she hoped he found a nice comfortable new home without a dog to annoy him.

She could have kissed Robert for sending her those few little texts, and leaving everything in the safe house. At that point, she wouldn't have cared if he had doubled crossed her and taken her money, she wanted out. Molly Hooper was not a fun person to be, not for four years, not even for fifteen million pounds and one hell of a view. While she was a character created in her mind, Molly Hooper was such a sad girl. If it weren't for her own underlying backbone, Molly Hooper would have been the sort to finally end it all after a particularly bad moment.

The door behind her opened, and in the reflection she saw Robert emerge, rubbing the back of his head. "Well I've got some interesting news."

"Sherlock Holmes himself is looking for Molly Hooper? That really makes things complicated." She was almost amused by this. He missed his coffee girl enough to aid in the search? It seemed he might have had hidden depths after all.

"I told him she was dead."

"And he'll keep looking for the body, Robert, besides you're not as good a liar. He probably knows I'm alive. I'll be stuck in London for a while then. I'll have to avoid cameras just in case Mycroft Holmes gets involved…so why did they ask me to stop observing them?"

"No idea. Four years was a long time under though."

"So why the fuck were you at the flat?"

"You left a pistol beneath the mattress.

"Knew I was forgetting something."

"It was already gone. They have it."

"Shit." She rubbed her forehead, settling down in the chair, taking another sip of her coffee, "Really, I should have left the moment I walked out of there."

"Better yet, you shouldn't have left your Glock underneath the bed, really, _Molly, _what were you thinking?"

"I wasn't."

"Big mistake. So what's going to happen now?"

"He's intrigued, so he'll search even deeper. He'll try to find a reason why Molly would keep a gun, and a reason other than himself that she could possibly have disappeared. Abduction is the best conclusion, as you had already admitting to at one point knowing her whereabouts—"

She stopped as soon as his phone started buzzing, watching as Robert retreated to the other room, already having a good idea of what the call was about. Robert wouldn't have left if it didn't involve her in some way, not even if it involved his lover. When it came to the lover, he only referred to her as "Darling" as he didn't want his partner to even know the first name of the woman. She didn't really blame him, and didn't blame the lover as the reason for his refusal to leave London. Really, she never wanted to harm the lover, and hoped that she helped cover Robert's tracks more than he did. After all, it only took an hour to find out that her name was Jane Coventry and she lived in a nice flat in Hoxton.

Robert returned to the room, suddenly looking very heavy, "They're offering another ten million."

She sighed in return.

"I'm sorry, but you're going to have to be Molly again." He rubbed his head sheepishly.

Unperturbed, she sat dumping the remainder of her coffee down her throat, wiping her mouth with her sleeve, "And why is this?"

"Our superiors. They didn't expect Holmes to even bring in the help of his elder brother to try to locate you—I mean Molly. They're intrigued, and wondering if you could actually weasel your way closer than 're paying you four million ahead of time. They know coming back will be inconveniencing. Refusing would have only been possible if you made it out of the country."

"Closer isn't invisible, Robert. That will be so much harder."

"Then develop Molly as closer to the truth—whatever that is.

She found herself sighing an awful lot for so early in the morning, and so nice a day,"They think I was abducted. There must be a purpose, a reason for Molly Hooper to suddenly be wandering the streets unscathed—"

Understanding, Robert reached across and grabbed her hand, breaking her fingers against the table. She stifled a shriek, instinctively pushing him away. He leapt on top of her, pulling her down, making sure that her arm slammed on the table, and her neck wouldn't be broken. As she stared up at him, he smacked her across the face, and drew a knife from his belt. She felt the welt already growing on her cheek, as well as her eye from his second punch. He contemplated where to cut.

"Not the face that could make future operations inconvenient." He stopped moments before he began to carve into it, just in time.

She managed to gasp as his hands closed about her throat, and he drew a couple thin red lines across her shoulders and down to her breasts. Unable to breathe, she panicked, throwing him off, as he threw a vase at her, shattering it on her legs. She tried very hard to catch her breath as he left the room. Her entire body would be bruised over, and there would be little doubt about the source of her injuries. Robert emerged with a blood stained hoody and a pair of ratty jeans, torn up versions of what Molly Hooper wore when she ceased being Molly Hooper.

Obviously Robert hadn't expected this little vacation to last. Her only consolation prize would be seeing the bloody cat again.

If it had been a normal situation, she would have crept back to her flat and treated herself. She, however, had to think like a traumatized Molly Hooper, who just escaped a man who kidnapped her for something she couldn't figure out. Molly Hooper just managed to shove herself through a window, and managed to saw off the ropes on broken glass. Burns were still there from the rope. It was hard not to admire Robert's handiwork. In another life he could have been a makeup artist, if one could just replace the fist with a brush and paint.

Molly would go to the cleverest man she knew. She stumbled up the stairs and knocked on the door weakly. John opened it, and she practically fell on him, sobbing. The crying was the worst part, really. It was also the hardest to perfect, as genuine tears were really quite difficult. While it was natural for Molly Hooper to cry, it wasn't so easy for the girl pretending to be Molly. Of course, she was brought inside to the cluttered flat, forced to sit on the sofa as Sherlock launched a barrage of questions at her, none of which Molly could quite comprehend.

"The man, what did he look like?"

She tipped her head back, staring blankly at Sherlock before formulating an answer, "Blond…rough looking, a big bloke—" She coughed and squeaked.

Unexpectedly, Sherlock's hand came in contact with Molly's shoulder, as he bent down in front of her, "You're safe now, Molly."

She couldn't help but be pleased with the unexpected development. Three fingers were broken, and she was quite battered, but she would live. Sherlock Holmes managed to amuse her in how blind he could be. He may have been clever, and enjoyed solving puzzles, her intelligence was slightly different. Instead of taking apart the puzzle, or making it supposedly too intricate to solve, she instead opted for a defense that he hadn't managed to find, let alone destroy; if she wasn't interesting, he wouldn't examine her closely. But who knew what would happen now that her "kidnapping" would throw her temporarily in the limelight?

**So yup, another chapter. Reviewers get imaginary cookies. I tried to keep my gun geeking out to a minimum. A safe action means that you simply have to squeeze the trigger all the way (in some cases pretty damn hard) for it to fire, and that it doesn't actually have any other safety device on it. It's good for quick firing, which is why police and the military tend towards Glocks. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Wow I am on a roll! Cookies to my reviewers, and those who also took the time to favorite! For the record (Like two people asked through PM) I'm American and forgot to reset my location thingy when I moved back to the states. I probably won't out of both laziness and thinking the UK flag looks pretty on my profile. Don't be afraid to suggest (reviews or PM) anything and everything. I have a very good idea of the plot, but it's not set in stone. (Insert Witty Way of Saying I Don't Own Sherlock Here) and enjoy.**

Molly stared blankly past Lestrade and at Sherlock, though it felt as if she wasn't aware of what she was actually looking at. Her hand was set in a splint, and her cuts had been shut with butterfly bandages. In captivity, she had been well fed and there was no sign of previous assault, sexual or otherwise. He concluded than the man returned after sneaking about Molly's flat, and for some reason vented his frustrations on the otherwise unharmed prisoner. Lestrade asked a question, and then repeated it before John intervened.

"Really, I don't think this is helping, we should—"

"Gun." Molly whispered, shrinking even further within herself.

Gun, she must be mentioning the Glock beneath her bed. Without thinking Sherlock strode into the room, "What gun?"

"He said 'gun' but I never saw it."

Sherlock was right, it couldn't have been hers. Molly shook and sputtered, hiding her face, "H-he just grabbed me!" She gasped again, "No r-reason, he just pulled me off the street and stuck me in a cellar…and it was dark."

Her rather lacking description aside, it was good to know that she was back and not in fact dead, not that Sherlock believed that she was for one moment—possibly when he received a concussion and he wasn't thinking as straight as usual—and of course Molly was intelligent enough to find her way out, she wasn't by any stretch of the imagination; stupid. She would take off work until her hand was healed, but after that, normalcy with a bit of caution thrown in would be restored. What he still wanted to know was why she was targeted? The little bits and pieces he had weren't adding up, aside from the man invading Molly's flat being the same man that abducted her. The fact that there wasn't an apparent partner made it slightly easier. But who he was, and why he took Molly were still questions left unanswered.

Molly trembled beneath the pressure of being interviewed, her eyes constantly darting to the exit and the wastebasket. She was going to be sick. Surely enough, her eyes bulged and she lunged for it, managing to keep her sick within its confines well enough, John drawing her hair back so that it wouldn't be dirtied by it. Even after she was finished, she hacked and coughed, tears streaming down her face. How could she get so emotional that she was physically ill? It was completely illogical, though Sherlock did feel a twinge of concern for her.

"I want to go home." She said at last, her voice only breaking on the last word, "Please. Can't I be done?"

Ever understanding, Lestrade nodded. Sherlock however, wasn't going to be completely dissuaded, "Molly he knows where you live. It wasn't just random."

"WHAT?!"

"A gun was found beneath your bed—"

"Why—oh my God—why would there be a gun beneath my bed?!"

"It seems that for some reason he put it there."

Molly was both frantic and terrified, opting to room with a friend over going back to her flat, though she did manage to ask for Toby to be brought to her. Why she had such an attachment to the cat, Sherlock hadn't the faintest clue. He just knew he wouldn't be the one to get him from the neighbors, cats were strange creatures that he didn't wish to associate himself with.

* * *

She wanted to scream and shout and through all sorts of fits, though it wouldn't have solved a thing. It was as if her employers didn't understand the word burned. In theory, they should have left her with no contacts and no money. But then again, they wouldn't. She was the first to admit that she was simply too valuable to toss to the wayside and it would leave too many loose threads not to kill her and Robert and probably whoever else could possibly be a danger to the network, of which only a fraction of she was supposedly only able to see. There was also the fact that she would go on a rampage to take what she wanted. Instead of throwing a fit, she made herself some coffee, smiled at a photograph tucked deep within her jacket pocket, and gently stroked Toby. Toby was another horrible name, but it was one that was starting to grow on her. If such sentimentality continued, then she might actually become Molly Hooper.

Really, as Molly certainly couldn't go to St Barts in her current condition, she was bored. Once she had a particularly close call involving being shot in the thigh. For several months she was out of commission, and found herself getting so antsy and so bored that she tried to solve some of New York's police cases only using the internet, and decided it would be entertaining to troll a couple of hate group websites mercilessly for extended periods of time. It was all silly and trivial, but it kept her from becoming mad as a box of frogs until she had the strength back in her leg. Nearly five years before that, she got knifed while in Toronto and was found by a random good Samaritan. While recovering, she managed to destroy and rebuild his entire loft at least seven times, but somehow he loved her anyway. But seeing as how well that one turned out, she found that boredom was best evaded.

She slipped into her coat and walked out to find a way to occupy herself. Maybe she would go look at art she really wouldn't buy despite liking, or try to find a nice jumper. Once she got into the cab, and the cabbie looked halfway back at her expectantly, an absolutely terrible idea sprang to mind. It was so terrible really, that a girl like her absolutely had to act upon it. Now that she was out in the open, Molly would slowly meld with her own personality until Sherlock finally gets a clue. And she…well she didn't think she could be considered a good person in the least.

Getting out of the cab, she spotted the woman immediately. She had blonde hair clipped short and clean, and was carrying a paper bag full of groceries. The perfect opportunity also presented itself; a can of tuna rolled off the top of the overstuffed bag and hit the ground. Quickly, Molly took the chance to bend over and grab it, catching up with the tall, slender woman before she was out of sight. Up close, she was beautiful as well, with only the tiniest of makeup smudges at the corner of her left eye.

"Oi, sorry, you dropped this."

"Oh thanks." Even her smile was sweet, "My bag's a bit—"

At that time, the bag decided to bust, her groceries quickly becoming strewn across the ground. The pair immediately bent down to pick it up, and in that had the shortest of conversations.

"I'm Molly, I live near St Barts."

"Jane Coventry."

Her smirk deepened at the name. Jane was a lovely woman, of course, living in a studio where she painted and she also taught at a university. She was really a very sophisticated woman, and it was easy to see why Robert liked her so much. He came in through the door, almost dropping his groceries at the sight of Molly as she helped Jane with dinner. Just barely, his jaw clenched, and then slackened.

"Hello, I'm afraid we haven't met."

"Oh, I'm Molly, Molly Hooper, Jane had a little accident with her groceries."

"She's staying for dinner, Rob!" Jane called over her shoulder before excusing herself "The loo is calling me, I'll be right back."

The instant the door closed, Robert turned towards Molly, hushing his voice, "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Having dinner with a nice lady I met while strolling."

"Strolling in Hoxton."

"Well I got bored, okay?"

Jane emerged, "I hope you two are getting along, all right. Molly, be a dear and set the table."

"Yes mam." Molly nodded to her and did as she bade.

"She's such a sweet thing." She heard Jane say briefly.

Dinner was surprisingly pleasant, up until the inevitable question was asked, "What happened to you, by the way? Those bruises they're…." Jane trailed off as if she couldn't think of a good way to describe them, "And your hand…."

"Oh." Molly looked down, suddenly feeling sheepish, "Bad boyfriend. Got rid of him fast."

"Did you press charges?"

She looked up at Robert, who stifled a smirk, "Nah, I got these throwing him out the fourth floor window."

"Oh dear!"

"He threw the first punch and he kicked my cat. The window was open and well—yeah."

Unexpectedly Jane snorted, "Well that subverts expectation."

"Oh good, I'd hate to think I'm unpredictable."

There was a great amount of laughing and chatting, as Jane grew more and more intoxicated. Molly had established that she didn't drink, while Robert took tiny even sips from his glass, staring her down. Yes, this was probably the bitchiest move she made in quite a while, but it did two things for him. It reminded him that while he was the one with the mobile that the higher ups called, she was still the one in control. It was also a warning; be more careful, or else they'll get a much more sinister dinner guest. If he really wanted out, she could offer it, but Jane would have to be told of his previous deeds and for some reason, Robert feared breaking the trust they had established. He was being completely stupid, keeping her in the dark.

After dinner, the exchanging of numbers, and a rather large hug from Jane, Molly returned to the flat that she and Toby were temporarily taking up residence at. Instantly, she knew someone was inside. She reached deep within her pocket, a switchblade having to do for whoever was inside, and opened the door with caution. Much to her surprise, sitting on the sofa next to a very lazy Toby was none other than Sherlock Holmes.

"Where have you been?"

_You're the genius, answer for me. _"My friend Jane had me for dinner."

"Jane. Blonde girl?" He was closer now picking off a hair, "Perfume, she hugged you, so either a close friend, or a rather grabby friend."

"Both, I'd say." Molly no longer had to crumple like a folding chair beneath his gaze. If she was going to spend even more time around him, she was going to allow bits and pieces to show, and validate the disguise, "Sherlock, why are you here?"

He turned away from her, pacing, already rambling "I still haven't found him, it still doesn't make sense—"

Molly found it interesting that he wasn't following his own philosophy. If it didn't make sense, it wasn't the answer. Stripping away the impossibilities leaves the answer, no matter how improbable it might be. Sherlock was accepting falsehood as truth, and therefore his reasoning process couldn't apply to the disappearance of Molly Hooper.

"It's okay, really it is. I'm sure he'll slip up soon."

"You spoke to me without stuttering. I just realized that."

"Being kidnapped has given me new perspective. You're not the least bit intimidating to me anymore." She smiled, watching as he absently scratched Toby's head, "Sherlock, go home."

His mouth set in a thin line, the most overt sign of stubbornness that he possessed, "Not going to."

Shrugging off her coat and hanging it on the hook, Molly walked past him and into the kitchen, "Would you like anything? Food? Tea?"

"Tea. You know how I like it." Scowling, Molly started the kettle. It was just like him to demand tea "how he liked it" when he had invaded her flat, and out of the goodness of her heart, Molly allowed him to stay.

She returned with the tea, putting less sugar in than usual, and giving it to him, but he was already in the Mind Palace that John often spoke of. Was there any reason he couldn't do this in his own place? Molly turned on the telly and flipped through the channels absentmindedly, finding nothing. Getting up, she examined her paltry DVD selection, and finally picked the series _Orphan Black _off the shelf, and popped it in before returning to the sofa her cat, and the very in the way, very invasive, very lump-like Sherlock. Her favorite seen popped up, and much to her surprise, Sherlock looked up at it registering what was happening.

"That girl's doppelganger just threw herself in front of a train."

Way to state the obvious, "Yup."

"Why?"

"Watch and I'm sure you'll figure it out." She couldn't help but tease him.

* * *

Sherlock surprised himself by actually sitting and watching the drama with Molly. He had intended to block it out as trivial information, but it was interesting, watching Molly react to a scene that she had obviously seen before. There was anticipation, but then there was also a cringe that fascinated him. He watched as the two girls met face to face (obviously played by the same actress) and the better dressed one simply walked out in front of the oncoming train. It was idiotic, but he was intrigued, and wanted to stop thinking about Molly's abductor for a single moment. Unlike his other cases which he threw himself into wholeheartedly, this one wasn't nearly as fun. The mystery was more a frustration than anything else, and that frustration almost met that of every time he caught sight of her hand.

She noticed, of course she noticed, she wasn't _as completely stupid _as everybody else, being one of the few exceptions to his rule, "Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"You're not going to tell me precisely what's wrong, are you?"

She did know him pretty well, "Of course not."

"That's okay."

"Was this friend of yours a painter?"

"Oh, I probably smell like that, or have paint on me or something." She looked at her clothes, finding the telltale stain, "Crap, I'll have to call and ask if it will come out. I'll be right back, please don't destroy this flat, Nina's in Argentina right now, but I really don't want to explain to her why it was set on fire or—whatever else you've done to 221B."

Sherlock waved halfheartedly, but noted Molly's rather secretive behavior, and determined that eavesdropping certainly wouldn't be out of line. He crept close to the door, and listened as Molly started chatting on the phone with someone, obviously the female friend who got paint on her.

"Oh that sucks. Maybe I'll bring it by, have you paint a flower over the stain or something—no, no of course it isn't your fault—don't worry—for now I guess I'll pray to the laundry gods for a miracle—yes, of course I'd love to come to dinner next week. I'd return the favor, but I'd probably char anything I make." That last comment didn't make sense, as Molly was in fact an excellent cook with a well-stocked kitchen in her flat. Sherlock had found it by searching. Yet oddly enough, Molly didn't sound at all like she was lying. "Yes, well I'll drop by tomorrow, three okay? Yeah, that works, bye Jane!"

Molly opened the door, staring him down, and he deduced that she had been very much aware that he had been listening. Sherlock stared back at her "You're not bad at cooking."

"Yeah, I lied." She shrugged.

"It was a very good lie though."

"I had to repeat it to myself over and over until it seemed like it could even fool you." She replied easily. "And before you ask, as to why, Jane has anxiety issues. Hearing about my incident would be rather bad, wouldn't it?"

Sherlock felt an odd twinge. If given enough time, Molly was perfectly capable of producing a lie that would seem perfectly genuine to him. Of course, she probably couldn't improvise well enough with him, but Molly could lie. For some reason that was an almost scary thought, as he always saw Molly Hooper as an open book, but then he realized that as soon as he actually turned to take a good look at her, the metaphorical book slammed shut. He took a mental note from the conversation and tucked it away for when he needed it: Molly can lie.

**So that's it for now. You know the drill about cookies!**


	4. Chapter 4

**You won't get another update out of me until Monday at least, sorry but there's only so much procrastinating and pretending the rest of the world doesn't exist I can do before the world knocks down your bedroom door and demands that you at least try to remember what grass looks like...not that I'm like that at all... Okay, so I do not own Sherlock, reviewers get invisible imaginary cookies, and thank you so much for taking the time to read this.**

Normalcy had been achieved at last; at least, that's what she decided to convince everyone around her of. She had Robert send flowers to her old flat repeatedly, and pretty much go down the checklist of obsessive stalker traits before he sending his final note. A suicide note did nicely, scrawled on a piece of paper quickly, and shoved into the mailbox of her old flat. She made sure it was erratic and impulsive, making it seem like it was written before a man matching Robert's general description threw himself off a bridge. Several weeks later, that body was fished out, and even though Sherlock had his reservations, the DNA (switched by Molly) was a match, as was the time of death. The puzzle pieces fit closely enough together that he let it go.

The broken fingers on her hands, while weakened and sore, had finally healed, and Molly was able to resume business as usual. She remembered when she was given her job description, and how she was expected to fake years of training within a couple months. It was one of the reasons she made Molly so shy and insecure; shy and insecure people expected to make mistakes, therefore did, and perpetuated their own misery in doing so. Certainty may have been an absurd concept, to paraphrase Voltaire, but it helped to at least pretend. Actually, strangely enough, she liked the job. It brought stability to an otherwise constantly moving, constantly double checking, and constantly uncertain life.

If she had actually grown up in England with fairly normal parents she probably would have ended up a pathology lab assistant or possibly even further as a pathologist. It was sometimes easy to get the two mixed up, as she often performed tasks that weren't entirely in her job description. Sherlock pretty much treated her like a normal pathologist. She could let her mind wander around a bit, as she only had to depend on daily visits from John and Sherlock for her information. They pretty much gave it to her, letting her in on their little games without thinking about it. Sherlock would act, simply getting what he wanted, but John would explain. Usually the explanations matched up, and she stored them away.

"Molly, I'm going to need Mr. Patmore!"

Suppressing a sigh, she stood up and gestured towards the morgue, "He's not there anymore."

"What?! Why not?"

"His body disappeared—I got a bit of an earful this morning and—"

Sherlock cut her off, already stalking away. John gave an apologetic shrug and smile. Molly weakly smiled back. Poor, Mr. Patmore was stabbed six times on the way to his flat. The mark of the killer was an X drawn across the body post mortem. Two had died while Molly was recovering, their faces in the pictures staring up at her as she took her morning tea. On the Sherlock Scale, this had to be at least an eight, as while the killer was messy, he was meticulous not to leave any sort of evidence. A smart serial killer was yet another puzzle.

She received a text from Robert: _Ups say he's too close. Take gun. Address to come. Danger._

* * *

Sherlock could recall a slightly similar situation, though this time he received the short end of the stick so to speak. This man was very much fit, extremely intelligent, and the gun was very much real. Also, John was incapacitated, so a last minute save on his part was entirely unlikely. He was both handcuffed and taped with expert precision, and she stared up at the serial killer, trying to school himself into boredom, despite the fact that a million theories, questions, and scenarios were running through his head.

"So what now?"

The man laughed, "You're the great Sherlock Holmes, why don't you deduce what happens?"

"I'd like to save some time." He refused to let himself look at John, groaning on the cold warehouse floor.

"Well, great detective, I'm going to kill you!"

"Well then. Go ahead." Sherlock shrugged the best he could through his restraints.

He pointed the weapon in the direction of Sherlock. The bullet would go directly through his brain at this point blank range, tearing through the delicate organ he prized. It was easier to think about the results rather than the actual dying part. Sherlock really didn't know how to feel about that so like most unknown feelings, he chose to ignore it, staring up at the killer. At least his death would lead the police no matter how stupid to the killer, as he had carefully written the name discretely and put it in his pocket. His killer didn't like disposing of his bodies, and didn't rifle through pockets. That would be his downfall.

Suddenly, in one instant, the skylight was opened and a shot was fired. Before him, the killer dropped dead, having received a shot near the heart. Of his savior, Sherlock could only barely see a feminine form and a ponytail before she quickly left his range of vision.

* * *

The first time she ever shot was to kill. The gun was there, her father was dead, she felt his blood pooling soaking her socks. There was no time to think. She picked it up and shot that horrible woman three times. She had been nine at the time.

This time, it only took one clean shot before her escape.

Molly rolled her eyes at her own stupidity. Really, the tiniest taste of freedom, the tiniest idea that life could be restored to some semblance of normal was completely ridiculous. Sherlock would most likely be able to deduce that she was female, but it wasn't Sherlock she was worried about. She stared at the camera that had caught a full view of her face, and the gun in her hands, unable to do anything to erase the image. She was only there to acknowledge that she knew he was watching, before continuing with her escape, sure to return to St. Barts hours before Sherlock would. She hadn't bothered to key herself out, and everyone would assume that mousy Molly was simply doing something else every time they sought her out. Even the hospital security wouldn't know she was gone, but that one single camera on the warehouse caught her.

It was only a matter of time before Mycroft Holmes would be requesting her presence.

Four years of careful consideration destroyed, simply because Sherlock had to chase a criminal who had no love of games or gloating. She just _barely _arrived in time to save both him and John. The consequences of failing were much too high for her to examine too closely. Gathering information was one thing that was easy. Pretending to be a completely different human being was also fairly easy. But chasing around the person you're tasked upon while doing the aforementioned, and keeping him from getting strangled, blown up, eaten by wild dogs, or managing to somehow kill himself with nicotine patches was considerably harder. This was the first time she had been caught though. She had no idea how this could possibly play out in her favor.

Only two hours later, when she was taking a walk to the grocery, a town car pulled up, and a man got out. She slipped in before she was told to, and was driven to a completely random place. It was a parking garage, she noted, with cameras absolutely everywhere. It made Molly uneasy, as she stuck her hands in her pockets, and approached the figure that loomed before her, facing away, with his hands clasped behind his back. It was Mycroft Holmes in the flesh.

"You catch on quickly." He stated, "As for who you are…well this is a surprise, isn't it Miss Hooper?" He turned towards her, grinning amicably despite the situation.

"I prefer Molly, thank you."

"Well Molly. I looked into you. Molly Hooper, age thirty-one, no living relatives, history of cancer in the family, pathology lab assistant and associate of my brother's. Oh and you're separated from and going through a dreadful long distance divorce with a Canadian citizen. Of course, all of this is false. You're not English and aside from being Molly, your prints aren't in any system, you're good about not getting caught on camera, and you've been other people before. I'm assuming you figured out a way to delete your existence every time. You specialize in information. How close am I?"

"It seems you get the one thing Sherlock always misses."

Mycroft leaned forward, "How long have you been watching?" He seemed almost giddy by this discovery, excited by the prospect of someone he had completely failed to see up until she made her first error.

"Guess." If Molly allowed him to indulge in this little game, then it would be possible that a deal could be struck. She liked deals; in fact she lived off of them.

"I'd say five years."

"Very close, I must admit. My employers wanted me to be thorough in the investigation."

"I see. Now what was the purpose of gathering information?"

"No idea."

"Really? A spy of your caliber, trained in the art of subtle observation and intelligence and also most likely a very curious individual, has no idea who her employer is after half a decade in their service? I'm rather disappointed unless…oh unless you're not telling me. But why would you protect your employer? Surely you know what I can do. What do they have?"

"Money." It was a simple enough answer, and the main reason most people got into the business.

"I have money. _They _have leverage." Mycroft was clever, much too clever for her liking.

"I must say you're of the brilliant sort. Now can you tell me what that could possibly be?"

"No except you confirmed that leverage existed. So far, your employers only want you to watch. You saved my brother, was that part of your orders?"

"I assumed I'd be out of the job if he got his brains blown out." She tried to avoid shrugging yet again, and instead leaned against one of the columns.

"Fair point. So watching him is your idea of a stable job. You won't let harm come to him, simply because the money would stop coming in, and whatever leverage they have would be used against you?"

"Precisely." There was no need to dodge this answer, or answer a question with a question.

"Then for now, I do not see you as a threat. But if your employers ordered you to kill him or let him die, would you?"

"Depends. For that, I'd take back said leverage, and disappear."

"They haven't offered?"

"No, and I don't think they're going to."

"I could help you, you know, if you told me what the leverage is."

It was very tempting, but she couldn't appear too eager, "I'll give you a week to find out. If you do, I'll allow you to help me, and no harm will come to Sherlock if I can have anything to do with it. If you can't, well let's just carry on as per usual. Deal?"

"Add telling me your employer's motives and it will be."

"If I know them, I will disclose them." She promised, knowing that promises meant nothing in this business. With that, she took her leave.

She was fixing herself dinner when her mobile buzzed.

A message specifically for the cell number she gave Mycroft appeared. It had only been three days. Curious, she removed herself from the room and peered at it. A little girl, about the age of ten or eleven, with mousy brown hair and large blue eyes stared back at her. For the first time in years, she felt herself be stripped of all other personalities but her own as she sank down to her knees, barely making use of the countertop in order to remain sitting up. Somehow she managed to swing wildly from relief to panic to sheer anger within the course of a minute before she calmed herself enough to read the message attached to the photograph.

_Leverage: Toronto Canada. Get on the next plane out._


	5. Chapter 5

**I'm back! So fair warning for the purists among us, there is an OC who is a bit more major than Robert and Jane. I apologize, but it's still to prove a point within my plot. Anyway, I'm wondering if I should change the name. So I've decided to hold an impromptu vote. Easier than setting up a poll, I'd like you to leave your vote with the reviews! Both seem slightly more plot relevant, but your choice! So please review and tell me!**

**Options:**

**A. Keep it the same**

**B. Spanner in the Works**

**C. The Side of Angels**

Sherlock had found nothing substantial on the person who saved his life. It was another mystery, probably only a five in his book, but he was very bored as no case had managed to catch his eye. When he walked back to the warehouse, and climbed the roof to retrace the woman's steps, he found that there was a camera. This meant that Mycroft most likely knew who she was, but why on earth would he want to take that short cut? Instead, he looked about the roof for any other piece of evidence. In the end, within an hour he found a shell casing and a long strand of brown hair.

St Barts was closer than Baker's street, so it was only logical that he would pop into the lab and examine it initially. The added fun would be testing the DNA without anyone getting too overtly irritated about it. Molly wasn't in the lab or the morgue, instead being replaced with some completely incompetent lab assistant who already had a serious drinking habit, a golden retriever, and an annoying habit of _not being helpful. _Irritated, Sherlock looked up from the woman's hair and at the man—what was his name? Tim.

"Where's Molly?"

"She took the week off."

"Molly doesn't randomly take weeks off. She's already been out due to injuries—"

"Most likely caused by her affiliation with you." This Tim was immediately added to the Definitely-Not-Like list in Sherlock's mind along with Donovan, Anderson, and of course; Mycroft, "I don't understand why she follows you around like a puppy, you treat her like total shite." Tim was getting braver and braver as he went on, completely oblivious to Sherlock seriously considering locking him in a freezer, "You know she's actually pretty cool when you're not around, a little quiet but pretty chill."

Not knowing how to reply, Sherlock turned back to his work, determined not to dignify him with an answer, "Coffee."

"What?"

"Get me coffee, are you really that stupid—"

"No."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at Tim's incompetence. Molly would get him coffee without being asked, and make it with two sugars just the way he preferred. This extended to knowing the teas he preferred, and even when he was forced to eat, what food he preferred. It was almost worse, having her voluntarily not be there, than when she was kidnapped. At least then he knew she had little choice in the affair. But no, Molly had randomly decided to take off and goes who knows where—

Wait why doesn't he know? "Where did Molly go?"

"I dunno. She seemed like really ticked off when talking to Mike, yesterday. Said something about a horrible bastard—Mike seemed sympathetic, but I don't remember where."

"Try to recall, you're tiny little brain can at least do that, can't it?"

Tim stood there for a moment, and Sherlock could almost hear his head protesting from the sudden duress, "I dunno, I thought she was talking about you."

"Useless." Sherlock turned back to the hair, having found nothing conclusive yet.

He didn't hear Tim slowly creep from the room. Molly obviously wouldn't have been talking about him that way, as she liked him. After all, she did let him into the lab and gave him a pass to the equipment. There was no reason for her to call him a 'horrible bastard' as Tim put it. The entirely conversation was simply absurd.

* * *

Molly Hooper took a week without pay off and bought a ticket to New York, but a woman named Trina Marshfield bought a ticket to Toronto. During the eight hour flight, she read the detailed contract that Mycroft had written out for her. They both knew that officially it wasn't worth the paper it was printed on, but it was to draw lines, and define when exactly the other had crossed them and when things would get nasty. While on a two hour layover in Montreal, she sent it back with her editing, notes, and additions, the biggest one being what she wrote at the very end.

IF ANYTHING REMOTELY BAD HAPPENS OR IF I FEEL THREATENED I'LL BE SURE TO SEND YOU SHERLOCK'S DISMEMBERED BODY IN A TRASHBAG AND YOU'LL BE NEXT—Cheerio!

She thought it best to make her sentiments known, and not wrapped up in the fanciful and drawn out paragraphs that Mycroft hid behind. He replied almost instantly;

_Pleasure doing business with you_

It was only on that last leg of her journey to Toronto that she started considering the consequences of what he offered. Of course, the best case scenario was that this agreement will hold for quite a long time, and some semblance of peace of mind would grace Molly. The worst case scenarios ended in blood and running, and death. Yet it was the best deal she had ever received, and speaking directly to the top would have its benefits, as well as not having to hide from cameras while on Saving-Sherlock duty (part of the agreement included deleting her from footage as it came). Robert was a loose end though. Hopefully they could tread around each other very carefully, but she knew leaving would surely be complicated.

Outside of the airport, Molly felt almost instantly at home. She missed this city so much, as it held a very special place in her often otherwise unmovable heart. It was where she was Madeline Pyne, still not her real name, but still much more familiar. It was where she got stabbed and left for dead by her own people, which oddly enough probably turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to her. It was where jumpers were sweaters, and where the loo was simply the washroom or the bathroom. Flats were apartments. Simple changes like that can mean the difference between home and an outpost. She took a cab to the outskirts of Toronto, where the perfect little middle class citizens happily mowed away at their lawns and lived in big regular houses.

With each passing moment, she felt her nerves fraying as she walked up to the school building. The bell rang and small children came pouring out of the establishment, not to be tamed by the teachers attempting to maintain control. Molly was sure to fix her hair again, and took a look at her makeup. She was very careful to make herself look like a business woman who happened to finally get time to walk her child home. Red lips, a bit of eyeliner, but not too much, and a black pencil skirt were what she wore, completely the look with pinned back curled hair.

Finally, she spotted her, walking alone slowly, as if dreading leaving the school grounds. Her small hands were holding on to the straps of her Hello Kitty backpack so tightly she could see her white knuckles from where she stood. Every misgiving Molly had ran through her head in an instant, but she walked right up to her and took the girl's hand. Eyes widening, she was about to pull away, when Molly whispered.

"So Anna banana, have you been good?"

Recognizing Molly's voice, clever little Anna smiled broadly, but didn't say anything as they walked out of the building, and into the cab. She still said nothing, only smiling, and clinging tightly to Molly's arm as they rode for thirty minutes to the hotel. Molly paid the driver and walked inside, Anna seeming as if she was about to burst with excitement. It was finally when they were in the room, with the door shut and bolted, that Anna hugged Molly very tightly, words that she never thought she'd hear were falling from the little girl's mouth.

"Mommy? Are you taking me away? You said you would, and I waited a long time."

"I know, Anna." The mother wrapped her arms around the daughter she hadn't seen in years, since she was roped into the agreement to watch Sherlock, "I'm here and I'm coming to take you away." The words she left unspoken, just on the off chance they happened to not be true were this: "And no one will ever take you away from me again."

"George and Sandy said you were bad. They said you were going to kidnap me, but I know my mommy, and I knew you were coming to get me. I practiced my Russian every day! See?" The next words were babbled in hurried and slightly lisping Russian "I didn't tell anyone I could, like you said. I was seven, but I remember! I remember, Mommy!"

"Good darling girl."

"Mom, why are you talking funny?"

"It's an accent. I had to have it. It's become a habit. Now let me have a look at you." Molly took in the sight of Anna before pulling her into a hug again.

"Kidnap me, Mommy. I want to go with you."

"Of course."

Anna was bright, catching on quick as they boarded the plane, "What's my last name, Mommy?"

"Well it's Pyne of course."

"Sandy said my names Annie Birch. I don't want it, but Pyne might be bad. You made yourself Molly Hooper to keep bad stuff away. Won't they find me if I'm still Anna Pyne?"

"They won't touch you, Anna Pyne. There's loads of other Anna Pynes in the world, and your Anna Pyne happens to be Molly Hooper's daughter who she received after a long and drawn out international divorce." It had been something she slowly developed over time, on the off chance that she could get Anna back. All Mycroft had to do was set it in motion, and it became a completely reasonable cover story. Though Sherlock would be freaked out by not being able to figure out why she didn't have signs of being divorced.

"That's where parents split up."

"Yup."

"So Molly Hooper was married to—"

"Jasper Pyne from Winnipeg. He died last week, leaving me custody. If anyone asks, just say your Dad's a jerk and you don't like talking about him."

"Well I don't like talking about Daddy, anyway."

"So it'll be easy then."

Anna pondered this, looking around the airplane, "Where is everyone?"

"I bought out all the seats in first class under a bunch of different names and paid off the pilot and the flight attendants so they will not to come in."

"Oh. That must cost a lot." Anna looked down, her eyebrows knitting together, "You don't do bad things for money, right?"

Not anymore, "No. I do things to protect a very important person, but he doesn't know. Him not knowing is part of the job, you see."

"Like an angel."

"What?" Molly was at a loss for what that meant. It gave her a painful reminder that she had no idea what Anna had been exposed to for the past four years. She missed a huge section of her life, and if she had remained with her mother—and dare she say it her father—then Anna wouldn't speak of angels in such a manner. She didn't know her own daughter, save for certain habits that carried over from when she was little.

Again smiling a smile so radiant that Molly wanted to hug her all over again, Anna explained, "According to Miss Locke, Angels protect people without them knowing."

Molly laughed, ruffling Anna's hair, "Well I suppose so."

It was only when Anna was falling asleep next to her, and the stale air was starting to get to Molly that she mulled over that statement "Angels protect people without them knowing huh? I guess my angel got stuck in traffic."

* * *

After getting Anna settled in the second bedroom of their new flat, Molly wasn't at all surprised to find Mycroft at her door, awkwardly holding a teddy bear that looked so out of place with the man that Molly absolutely had to snort, "Congratulations on getting your daughter back."

"Thank you, please come in, I've got tea and biscuits, and I believe that you still want to discuss the contract further."

"Yes. I don't think you're in any position to issue threats."

"It wasn't a threat. It was just something that you forgot to mention." Molly sighed as they settled at the table, each with a cup of tea, "At least she was treated well while there."

"Very well. I do think that Sandy and George got more attached to her than she did of them." Mycroft's tone changed, signifying a more serious topic, "I believe we are at an understanding. No harm comes to Sherlock, no harm comes to Anna, and we have an arrangement that could possibly last decades."

"Question; can I quit being a lab assistant?"

"Probably not. Besides, what else will you do while Anna's at school?"

"Not carve up dead bodies?"

"It's the easiest way."

"I'd much rather work at a candle shop thank you. Nice regular hours, no overwhelming smell of death—"

"Molly Hooper likes her job. That's your name now."

"I should have picked a better name then."

"Mom, who's that?" Anna emerged, rubbing sleep from her eyes, but still somehow gazing intensely at Mycroft.

"I'm Mycroft Holmes, your Mummy's boss." At this moment, he stood up and awkwardly presented her the teddy bear, "Welcome to England."

"I don't like you."

"_Anna!" _

"No, quite all right." Mycroft held up his hands, that constant sickly smile drawn across his face, "Your Mom and I were just discussing business—"

"And I'm hungry."

"I'll get you some biscuits."

"Biscuits? For a snack?"

"No, I mean cookies, like chocolate chip."

"Oh."

Molly almost felt a whiplash from snapping from business mode with Mycroft to Mother-Anna-Remembers-Mode with Anna. She was suddenly smiling, getting the cookies from the top shelf, and pouring a glass of milk just so that she had something somewhat nutritious with her snack. She almost felt like the little girl sitting at the counter with her legs dangling from the stool was delicate, and would shatter if handled incorrectly. She knew Mycroft was greatly aware of this change. She hoped he knew she meant what she said about what happens if anything happens to Anna. The moment he was gone, Anna dropped the teddy bear on the table, and Molly ripped it open with a knife, their minds temporarily acting as one. Upon further examination, they found the bug Mycroft attempted to plant.

**So fun note: I actually do not hate the name Molly Hooper. I think it's adorable. Just felt like sharing:D**


	6. Chapter 6

**So longer wait than anticipated! Sorry! For that I am giving away dumpsters full of imaginary cookies (oh the dumpsters come in pink and green by the way, so your choice) Really I'm so glad I managed to make it within a week, otherwise I've broken the promise:D Enjoy...or enjoy hating, really I cannot tell you what to do. If Sherlock was mine, there would be a Johnlock Sherlolly messed up love triangle thingy going on...so really it's better that I don't. **

Anna hated school. She hated it even before her mother came home with the uniform and hand tailored it to fit. The uniform was an ugly black and white creature which required a skirt; otherwise it wasn't seen as properly proper enough. Molly couldn't help but laugh at her, as she tied the bow on Anna's head with deft and practiced hands, giving her a small hug from behind. Shrieking Anna pulled away, laughing, forcing Molly to chase her about the flat, laughing the entire way. This was distraction enough for when Molly finally took her up to the school, Anna only grew grave at the end of the walk.

"I want to stay with you, Mom. You might go—"

Kneeling down in front of Anna, Molly placed a hand on each shoulder, "I'll just be at the hospital all day. You know the one we passed on the way?" Anna nodded so Molly could continue, "If there's any trouble, or you miss me, or I don't come pick you up right away, you go there. No one else picks you up but me, even if I text you about it. I will tell you in person on the walk here, you understand?" Another nod "Now be good. Make a couple friends. Do whatever it is that ten year olds do these days."

"Yes, Mom."

"And have fun!"

She felt so light as she walked into St. Barts, like a great weight had been lifted from her chest. Anna had been safe this entire time, and what she had been doing wasn't for nothing or just money at all. Though the money was nice as well, she would be the first to admit that. It felt as if all withering plants would spring back to life in her presence, it felt as if Sherlock Holmes would actually shut up it felt as if flowers would rain down from the heavens. Quickly, she ducked into the bathroom and gave herself a quick cut across the leg, dragging her back to reality. This sort of happiness was blinding.

* * *

Molly was behaving quite strangely. Sherlock determined this as soon as she walked into the room, finding that there were some unusual things about her. First, her hair was down, pinned out of her eyes for the convenience of using the microscope. Then there was the strange dark substance on her fingers he noticed before she put on her gloves. Flecks of glitter seemed to be on her skin, and for the first time, she had her mobile phone out on the counter, and on vibrate where she could see it. For the most part, Sherlock could ignore it, but then the phone started buzzing.

Immediately, Molly dropped what she was doing (which was rather rude, as it pertained to his case) and jumped for the device. Obviously she had been expecting the call, but didn't make any move to exit the room; therefore a boyfriend was highly unlikely.

"Hello? Yes, that's me. Why do you—wait she did what?! Look, I'm sorry, it's her first day, new country, new school, I'm surprised she's still not jetlagged and—yes, yes, I'm aware it's against the rules. No, I don't think it was very legal in—Canada, she's from Canada, not the states—oh no don't worry you're not the only one to get it mixed up—shall I pick her up early then? I'll be sure to talk to her—oh no, of course not—don't worry I think it'll come out with bleach."

"You have a child living with you, female, probably ten or eleven. She's a relative, and you retrieved her on your week off, suggesting you now have custody." He rattled off, hoping she would get back to work. Much to his dismay, she was pulling off her lab coat. She couldn't leave, she wasn't finished yet.

"I'll probably have to bring her back here, there was a bit of an incident and—well yeah, I'll be back in about—" She looked at her watch, "—Forty-five minutes, give or take depending on traffic. Well bye!"

She rushed out, and Sherlock had no choice but to return to his case. Really, Molly's irregular behavior was becoming a hindrance in his concentration, but he oddly enough enjoyed her company more now that she wasn't constantly stumbling over her words, and getting things out. More often than not, she could have a point, so it annoyed him that she couldn't just get to it. Precisely forty-seven minutes later, Molly returned and made a beeline to Mike Stamford, leaving the new arrival in the room with Sherlock alone. He ignored her, but heard her wandering about, looking at the various types of equipment the lab possessed.

"I'm Anna."

Sherlock ignored her.

This Anna girl persisted, "You're a detective. I think that's cool. I want to be a detective when I grow up; I think it would be fun."

Sherlock sighed, turning towards her, "Oh really?" She had a uniform for an expensive school on, and a blue bow in her curly brown hair. She looked at him with no reserve, obviously fascinated by this new character before her.

"Yes. I practice. Mom says I need to practice that sort of thing."

"And—"

"You're clothes are expensive, you use your phone all the time, you prefer text over talking over the phone, and you get bored easily. You have a rich older brother who you cannot stand because he's more smarter than you and he likes to keep tabs on you." She giggled, "I think that's sweet."

Sherlock found himself mildly impressed, "You don't need more instead of smarter."

She scowled at him, balling her small fists, "Mom said you were a jerk."

Mum? When did he ever meet this strange little girl's—Molly walked through the door, moments later, a stack of paperwork in her arms. Anna lit up immediately, "Mom! When are we going home?"

Of course. Once again, Molly Hooper had clearly managed to subvert expectation. The resemblance was subtle, as Anna's genetic makeup hadn't favored her mother, but of all things, their skin was almost exactly the same, and they both shared the trait of a too small mouth. Anna's age meant that Molly had her a good six years before they met. Their behavior was as if they weren't quite comfortable with each other, suggesting a prolonged absence from each other's presence. Molly spoke of a 'horrible bastard' to Mike and then takes off for a week, bringing her Canadian daughter back. He had the pieces and slowly they came together in his head.

Molly was a divorcee who didn't display attributes of being divorced. Molly was a mother who went a long time without her daughter, when he didn't even know she had one. Molly was acting sweet and tender and overly sentimental, just as someone like Molly would behave with a child, but somehow it felt alien and foreign. It was _wrong _that the number of incorrect deductions he made about Molly were simply piling up, all after that abduction of hers. Anna herself was interesting as well, hyper observant, much like he was, but much more outgoing. Maybe that's why Molly let Sherlock do whatever he wanted so easily, he reminded her in some small way of her daughter. It was all sentiment, up and down.

Sherlock cursed himself for letting the pair distract him, and eventually, when a doctor offered to let Anna look at a couple X-Rays, he had to ask Molly about her, "A daughter."

"Yeah."

"Any reason—"

"It never came up, Sherlock. Why would I randomly tell you out of the blue that I—"

"Have a daughter and have been going through an extremely long and drawn out custody battle?"

"Yes precisely."

"What changed?"

"He got killed in a hit and run. Totally pissed. Anna went to me almost immediately, and the will's still being sorted, but since I'm technically his widow it will go to us—"

"He was wealthy enough to make it difficult. You had the advantage of actually being sane, a couple good lawyer friends, and the fact that you were the mother which does make a difference in the case—" Sherlock rattled off, still wondering why he wasn't just asking her for the tissue sample results he needed.

"Sherlock, I'm not comfortable discussing this with you—there was no sign of any common poison or any odd amount of normal chemicals."

It seemed that now that she had her Anna back, she had no need for someone who shared a similar trait. Somehow Sherlock found that lonely, almost cold. He wasn't used to people actually liking him, and especially for as long as she had. Even stranger was suddenly feeling her warmth vanishing, to be given to another person entirely. Even stranger was his strong reaction to this. He thought he had been doing better since the Christmas disaster he had a hand in. The entire time, he was simply a substitute, a coping mechanism, in the absence of something Molly deemed better.

She returned to working, admonishing Anna for the incident that caused her to be picked up early, but still rewarding her with crisps all the same as they both focused on their different tasks. Getting his information was slow going and he found irrelevant deductions of Anna very distracting, but eventually he stood up to leave, neither of them looking up to see him go.

* * *

Molly looked down at the text from Mycroft, hiding it from a curious Anna's view. She glanced at it quickly.

_It's time to tell me who you worked for._

_Who? There's two now, remember?_

_Oh so you're still seeing the other one? Should I be jealous?_

Molly barely avoided cringing: _You asked for motive, not for who._

_Fine then, motive._

_Protection._

Mycroft didn't answer. She sighed in relief, but didn't know that his next text, which she received over dinner, would produce an entirely new shit storm: _Moriarty has escaped._

With a sigh, Molly took her other phone, producing a picture of a man and sliding over next to Anna, "See this man?"

"Yes."

"Memorize every detail that cannot be easily altered, _right this instant."_

Anna took the phone, examining him closely, "He's a bad man? Who is he?"

"A very bad man named James Moriarty. Remember his face, Anna."

She nodded gravely before returning to her pasta, "I'll remember, Mommy."

* * *

John was quite annoyed with Sherlock's constant violin playing. It was one thing for it to be going on while he was going in and out during the day, but an entirely different story at two in the morning. Finally he got up, resolving to shut Sherlock up or at least figure out what the hell he was thinking so hard about in between cases. He barged into the living room with crossed arms, "SHERLOCK I'M TRYING TO SLEEP!"

The playing halted and Sherlock looked over at John blankly, "And?"

"And people like me need sleep. Honestly, what's gotten you up?"

Sherlock stared, not at him but slightly past him, "It seems I have to reconfigure all my knowledge on Molly Hooper now."

"What? Why?"

"She has a daughter."

John cocked his head slightly, wondering if this was some sort of bizarre dream, "What?"

"Daughter; female offspring."

"When did that happen?"

"Eleven years ago with sexual partner of choice obviously."

"Oh what I mean is—"

Sherlock quickly recounted the story of Anna appearing in Molly's mortuary, "And this has led to several new deductions upon examining her relationship with me."

"Like?"

"She wasn't infatuated with me at all, not really. Her daughter's clever in the same sense as I, and I reminded her of the daughter and this is why she constantly reached out to me and attempted to get my attention. Therefore every time I managed to injure her feelings, it didn't feel like she was being spurned it felt like she was being ignored by her overtly affectionate daughter, oddly enough."

"Wait…you're up playing at two AM because you're upset about being a replacement goldfish?" John sighed, "Oh well, carry on if you must." John decided that investing in sound cancelling headphones would be beneficial for the next upcoming nights, as Sherlock resumed his playing.

**So yeah, Sherlock's jealous of a ten year old. I can really see that happening, as he can be quite childlike. **


	7. Chapter 7

**So I figured out that if you write with a high fever all you will produce is gibberish mixed with unaccented Spanish and Italian. Obviously this chapter underwent major editing once I was feeling better so that everyone could actually understand it. Thank you everyone who has reviewed! I'm grateful for you all! So cookies and pixie dust for all of you! **

Molly felt the gun pressed up against her back. She forced her hands to tremble, knowing Moriarty never saw through her persona. It was so oddly true how similar he and Sherlock were. They were both incredibly brilliant but saw poor little Molly Hooper as something to be used and nothing more. When she dated him, knowing that he was gay and only wanted to get to Sherlock, she never let herself slip, while constantly researching him until she came to the conclusion that he was the Consulting Criminal before Sherlock did. But now, he was back, and that odd calm rushed over her as she looked down at the table, clutching the edge as if to keep from shaking. Actually no, she was shaking, it took very much effort not to turn around rip the gun from his hands and blow his brains out. It would be so easy, but she knew she couldn't. Not yet. First off, Mycroft and her other employers had warned her against it, and secondly, she had to be sure about him and who he was.

"I got acquitted, darling, isn't that wonderful news?"

"W-what d-d-do you want from me?"

"Sherlock will ask you for help, darling." Her blood ran cold.

"But why—"

"Oh I don't want you to refuse if that's what you're asking. Go ahead and help him like the bleeding heart you are, Molly dear, there's no fuss about that. But you're going to have to help me as well…."

"W-why should I?"

"Because if you don't, I'll kill you darling, I'll have Sebby gut you like a little fish."

She didn't smile, although she really felt like doing so. Moriarty didn't know about Anna yet. THAT was hysterical. The silly man was so totally Sherlock's equal and opposite, so the other side of the coin, he didn't bother to check Molly for anything suspicious. This was foolhardy. At least in knowing that she wasn't a genius, she was thorough in every endeavor she ever attempted. This was why she knew about Robert's lover Jane, or about who actually employed the pair other than Mycroft.

"W-what d-do you—"

"Darling, please stop stuttering, what I want you to do is accept his help, do whatever he says, and make sure everything goes according to plan."

Slowly, Molly nodded, and suddenly he was gone. Knowing he was still watching, she slowly sank to her knees and covered her face, barely able to stifle the laughs and turn them into sobs. A few minutes later, she stood up, straightened her coat, and went back to work, although she determined that Moriarty would soon learn of Anna's existence, especially if Molly was being followed. She took out a burn phone, and called, even though she knew Anna was in the middle of class, she would hear her own secondary phone go off.

"Anna, darling, step out of class for a moment."

The instructions were simple. Go to a certain flat in Hoxton, and tell the man and woman there that she was Molly Hooper's daughter. If the man is not there, wait outside until he arrives. Once he does, ask him a riddle. Even though Anna's memory was good, she made her repeat it three times before being fully satisfied. If the man knew the answer, go on inside. If not, run very fast, very far, and go to, dare she say it 221B Baker's street. That was only a last resort though. Anna was confused, but after telling her Molly's name, her real name, not any of the ones she conjured up before, she was trustworthy. She then had Anna dump the burn phone she was calling on, and her own before Mycroft could get that snippet.

* * *

They were about to go investigate the kidnapping, when Sherlock heard a sharp and hurried knock at the door. John opened it, and the pair unexpectedly found Anna Pyne on their doorstep. Her coat was wrapped about her tightly, over clothing she had obviously hurried into after taking off her school uniform. She also seemed to have been running for a great deal of time, judging from the sweat to her slightly breathless words.

"Mom told me to go here." She stated simply, tears beginning to roll down her cheeks, "Something bad's happening, I can tell." Anna rushed in before John or Sherlock could say anything, curling up in a ball on the sofa, "She said she wouldn't leave me, but she called me in school and—and I don't know what's going on!"

John knelt down in front of her, no doubt in an awkward attempt to calm the child, putting a hand on her shoulder, "Your Mum? Molly told you to come here?"

"Yes—she said to go to her friend's place first—but I went and I couldn't stay, she said to go here if—that didn't work." Obviously she was hiding something, but Sherlock's mind was buzzing too much with activity to really care.

"Mrs. Hudson!" He called out.

Moments later she arrived, spotting the frightened little girl, "Oh dear—"

"Watch her while we're gone." Sherlock was already out the door when he said this, John trailing closely behind.

As soon as they slipped into the cab, John asked the question Sherlock knew he had on his mind, "What on earth—"

"Molly must have panicked with Moriarty around."

"Oh…."

* * *

She offered her help, just like Moriarty said to, but somewhere she really didn't expect Sherlock to actually show up and practically beg for it. Molly sighed, "What do you need?"

"You need to help me fake my death."

Resisting the urge to smile, Molly nodded. This was easy. In fact, she had the job half done for him, with all the proper documents ready for three alternate identities, one even having red hair. It was a safety precaution, maybe a little far for protecting him, but if he was dead, she would have never had a chance to get Anna. Even with Anna back, she did want to help him still, even if it was playing one of Moriarty's games. In the end, if Sherlock's alive, she did her job.

She let him lay out the plans, subtly correcting them when needed and his back was turned. There was no reason to reveal her expertise on the matter, after all, not yet. Once that was out, she feared he would never trust her again. It was easy being little trustworthy Molly after all. Apparently she counted as well, which came to be a bit of a surprise. Molly never really thought of him as devoid of emotion, but Molly Hooper was specifically designed _not _to count. Later, she would have to examine how that went wrong.

"I'm sorry."

"For what, Sherlock?" There seemed to be loads of surprising things he's been doing as of late.

"This will endanger you, and your—"

"We can handle this, Sherlock." Molly let her gaze harden as she met his, "Now, I think you have a show to attend."

* * *

Anna found it odd that the contractor working on Mrs. Hudson's flat wouldn't take the money until afterwards. Even though her mother had warned her to be careful, she couldn't help but poke about everywhere he went within the area. She was careful not to disturb him, to act like the little shadow until she saw it. The case was longer than frankly necessary for someone's wallpaper tools, but not long enough to contain the poles that were often used. It was also locked. She worked quickly to remedy that, and when she opened it, she found a rifle and tripod. She wasn't as familiar with guns as her mother, but she knew it was something for a sniper to use.

"Little girls shouldn't go through people's stuff."

Slowly, Anna turned, and faced the man, her hands clasped behind her back, "You're going to die, you know."

"What?"

He didn't perceive her as a threat, not taking the gun that he had hidden in the small of his back out. Slowly, Anna grew more confident, "If you kill Mrs. Hudson, you're going to die. You work for that Moriarty dude right? This is supposed to be a straightforward job, but it's not. If you walk away, you won't die."

"If i walk away, I won't get paid." He returned gruffly, "Look kid I don't know how you know this, but I don't want to kill you-."

"If you killed me, you would die slowly and painfully without any hope for escape."

"Sherlock Holmes doesn't kill."

"But the Reaper does."

At that, the sniper masquerading as a contractor nodded, a small smile gracing his lips, "She's back eh?"

"Yes."

"Then my employer is done for."

"Most likely." Anna gave a small shrug.

"Last time I saw you, you were a wee little baby, yah know?" Unexpectedly he approached her and put a hand on her shoulder "You're a smart little lass, just like your mum...just don't think that you have to be just like her-"

"I'm going to be a detective." Anna crossed her arms jutting her jaw out proudly "Now either finish the wallpaper, which you're horrible at by the way, or get out of here."

The sniper chuckled, ruffling her hair, "Fine, you've won."

It was only after he left that Anna realized how horribly that could have gone, and elected to leave out a few details when relaying this information to her mother.

* * *

"Mommy, can I poke his cheek?"

"No, darling, he's going to be awake any time now."

"But he looks funny!"

"The sedatives made his face relax. It's nothing. Now shoo!"

Sherlock awoke to their voices, his head pounding, and when he briefly opened his eyes, the room spun around him, and he briefly hallucinated, seeing the ponytail of the mysterious woman who shot the serial killer Greg Kennedy. He kept them closed for a while longer, and then the next time he opened them, a pair of large electric blue eyes were staring at him, "Mom! He's awake!"

Molly appeared, twisting her ponytail around her finger, "Welcome to the land of the living dead, Sherlock. The drugs will wear off soon enough. You are incredibly bruised, but other than that, no injuries. We're at my flat right now, the one I moved into when Anna came. You be safe for the time being."

"John—"

"John is extremely heartbroken but very much alive. So it worked."

"Moriarty is—"

"He's not dead."

Molly's voice was surprisingly hard, her hands clasped together, but she didn't seem scared, "What?"

"His body wasn't found. I found signs he used a blank. He's probably injured." She rattled this off, almost bored, acting like a completely different person in fact. This Molly was completely cold, clinical, unfeeling, like the events of the day hadn't quite reached her yet. "I'm also pretty sure he knows you're alive as well, I mean it wouldn't surprise me at all."

Sherlock's mind was racing ahead to what must be done. Of course Moriarty was still alive, he probably planned as far ahead as Sherlock did, leaving the uncomfortable truth that Moriarty would probably know where to look. He sat up groggily, rubbing his head, wondering how long it would be safe to remain. It probably already wasn't safe. Yet Molly and Anna were so relaxed, and he watched as Anna read a book, looking completely calm aside from slightly trembling fingers. All occupants of the bedroom (obviously Molly's) heard the door open and slam.

"Wait here." She snapped at Anna before the girl had risen all the way, and she went out into the living room.

Anna slowly crept up to Sherlock, "She's going to keep you safe." She promised, patting his hand.

Sherlock cocked his head at her, seeing Anna's obvious pride in her mother, "Molly?"

Anna frowned and looked away, "I hear no guns. She's talking to someone."

"Obviously."

* * *

Robert was trembling with anger and rage, his pistol pointed directly at Molly, but his voice was deathly calm, "I get a call from intensive care, that Jane had been shot, and if it weren't for a child calling it in, she would be dead, what, _what _am I supposed to think of that?"

"You should think yourself lucky that I sent Anna there."

"Molly, this is no time for games she was—"

"Almost killed. I'm aware. I didn't know, honestly, I wouldn't have sent Anna if I knew someone was targeting Jane. I would have protected her, I swear. Hadn't I been doing that?"

"Don't you think you're starting to spread your protection a little thin? The Holmes brothers, me, Jane, your daughter, your old life…how do I know you won't just snap?"

"Because you know me, and you know very well I won't." Molly walked across the room slowly, and gently set her hand atop his, putting the gun down, "Will Jane be all right?" She found herself asking at last.

Robert nodded slowly, clearing his throat, and looking away as tears spilled, "Nothing too vital was hit, and Anna kept the blood loss down until the paramedics arrived. Good kid, just like her Mum." He then proceeded to give Molly a small and awkward hug, "I'm sorry I didn't know what I'd accomplish—"

"You needed someone to talk to." Molly shrugged, "I'll search leads. Keep in touch, but don't come here again. Do you understand?"

He smirked, pulling away from her, and tucking the gun in the small of his back beneath his shirt and jumper, "I really think I should do something legitimate after this. A nice retirement in Tuscany or California would suit my fancy. It would be Jane's choice, of course."

"So you told her?"

He chuckled, "She threw a frying pan at me. Good luck, little nobody." With that he walked through the door, "I'll only be in town for a couple weeks, but I'll make sure _you _can find me. Don't abuse that, or I will put a bullet in your head."

Molly sighed, and returned to the other room, "Just a friend, sorry about my loss." She slid down the closed door, exhaustion finally beginning to kick in. Sherlock eyed her, but said nothing, "Anna, I'm going to go check up on John. He won't want it, but that's to be expected." She stood up and promptly left.

* * *

"Mom told me not to let you use the laptop." Anna told Sherlock matter-of-factly as she slammed the pink computer shut and took it away, "She said your searches would raise flags."

"Your mother's smart but I'm—"

"Bored. She said to use this one instead." She went over to the closet, and pulled out a dark gray laptop, the sort that could be bolted shut, and gave it to him, "The pass is 2231. Password; Don't Fear The REAPER. Use the apostrophe, capitalize the first letter of each except reaper, which is in all caps."

"Where'd Molly get this? Mycroft?"

"She had it for a long time. It was here when I got here."

"Your mother's constantly surprising me."

"She should, she's your angel."

Sherlock didn't ponder for long what that could possibly have meant as he had work to do, researching Moriarty and his network freely on Molly's surprisingly secure computer, with Anna peeking over his shoulder until she fell asleep. Molly wasn't back for a long time, and when she did, he could hear her taking the sofa. Every couple hours, she would pop in silently to check up on him, always about to say something, but deciding at the last moment that it was better not to.

**Oh I'm also very pleased that today Once Upon a Time and Revenge are coming back! Sundays will not be dull for a while!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Updating quickly tonight! Tehe, I got excited. Invisible cookies to my lovely reviewers. Okay, so sorry I couldn't come up with a better nickname than Reaper, I've been watching Darker than Black and couldn't help myself. There's just something universally frightening about a person being equated with death….**

**So sorry romance is kind of slow (It's my first time ever trying to write it, so this is my guinea pig before I apply it to an original piece) but for clarification it will be Sherlolly eventually.**

_The recently widowed Mrs. Madeline Pyne sat in her house, a gun in her hands. Nearly everything she had worked so hard to achieve and protect had been stripped away from her in the course of a night. There was no great evil to blame, simply a home invasion gone wrong. The gun, it was loaded with one bullet, one was just enough to kill herself—they took her daughter—they took little Anna. How could they do that? She had nothing. For the first time since the first time she held a gun, her hands shook as she rose it and placed it beneath her chin._

_"I wouldn't do that if I were you."_

_Madeline lowered the gun, looking up at her guest with blank eyes, "You. Excellent. Maybe I should just shoot you instead._

_The woman laughed, tossing her perfect silver curls over her shoulder, and began to walk about the empty room, "No…you won't. Sorry, you're too smart for that. Shame. I think it would be almost easier to be a happy little idiot in this world."_

_"Give me my daughter back!" Madeline shrieked, standing up, but was sure to put the gun off to the side, "I want her back! She's all I've got left!"_

_"No. You're not stable, Madeline. You've suffered a great loss—"_

_"Made greater by my daughter's absence! They killed my husband! My child! Can't I at least have my Anna back?"_

_"You have killed many a woman's husband."_

_"But I've never harmed a child. Never."_

_ "You sat and ignored your daughter for three days, and didn't even realize she was gone. In this world, she wouldn't last long."_

_"She was never meant to be part of this world."_

_"And as long as you do as I say, she never will be."_

* * *

Molly only had to kill twice in the years that she protected Sherlock. He was irritatingly lucky, and once he had obtained an experienced army doctor as a partner, her job only became easier. Capturing people and asking them what they were doing was almost a constant thing she had to do. With the snipers targeting John and Lestrade, it was only natural that she had to question them. They sadly knew nothing, except that they were getting paid. She hated the lack of curiosity of assassins. It was probably why she wasn't one for a particularly long time.

One man with steely gray eyes had been reduced to blubbering by the time she was finished, and yet she had gained nothing. She promptly pulled out a pistol and shot him in the head, the impact causing the chair to fall over with his body. Hired killers knew the risk. He knew from the beginning it would have been stupid of her to leave him alive. If he didn't, then he was stupid.

When she returned to her flat, she hung her coat on the hook and turned on the light to find Sherlock sitting in a chair in front of the door, "Where did you go?"

"Out."

"You know very well what I mean, Molly."

Cringing, Molly sighed, "Fine. I went and shot two snipers in the head."

There was a beat before he actually replied.

"Humor really isn't your forte, Molly."

Molly opened her purse, pulling out a slightly crushed bag, "Actually I was getting some Jammie Dodgers for Anna to try. She's never had them."

"In the middle of the night?"

"There's only so much of you I can stand you know."

"Stop doing that."

"Doing what?"

"Being different."

"How am I being different?"

"You, all of you is completely different! It's annoying, irritating, distracting! Molly Hooper is predictable and smart but insecure and—"

"_You _don't know me, Sherlock. Would nice predictable and innocent Molly Hooper help a fake detective fake his own death."

Sherlock looked as if he had been punched in the stomach. Unexpectedly, Molly felt the urge—a real actual urge—to apologize to him. That had been out of line, even for her. She had forgotten how stressful kidnapping and interrogating people would be. Sighing, Molly settled down in her chair, throwing the bag to the side, and rubbing her forehead. Creeping up behind her, Sherlock placed an awkward hand on her shoulder.

"Thank you, Molly."

Those words were monumental, coming from Sherlock. She knew he was only thanking her for helping him survive the fall. Yet, it felt as if she was being thanked for five years of her service, and for the two assassins she killed in order to protect John and Lestrade. Molly found herself smiling, and laid her head on the table, relaxing a bit with a warm hand on her shoulder. Sherlock remained for a minute longer before retreating to the couch and getting on to her computer.

"Where did you get this laptop, anyway?"

"I bought it." Molly shrugged sitting up, and rolling her shoulders painfully aware of the spot where the second assassin had managed to clip her with a chair. She stood up, "Well I'm going to go to bed."

* * *

Anna stared down Toby, as his tail swished back and forth. It was simple; all she needed him to do was be the first one to break. She didn't understand her mother's attachment to the creature, and didn't question it. Her Mom had been lonely. She had been lonely too. Sandy was nice, but she was too motherly for Anna's tastes. Sandy pretended too much, and really didn't care what happened to Anna as long as the checks kept coming in. Her mom, however, could be slightly cold, but everything she ever said to Anna unless she firmly said otherwise, was true.

Toby broke the staring contest first. Anna stuck her tongue out at him and rolled over to watch Sherlock type in a rapid fire fashion, rarely pausing as his eyes roved back and forth. When would Mom tell him? Anna wasn't allowed to, she knew that, but it was still very sad to watch him be constantly confused by the behavior of "Molly." Anna liked Sherlock, and didn't want him to be cast off to the side when Mom deemed it time. She wanted to keep him around and learn from him. So she stood up and pulled on her coat to embark on her next mission.

She strolled in the doors of St. Barts and down to the morgue where her mom was no doubt working. Mom looked the same as she did, pulling off her character perfectly, and looked up in surprise at Anna, "What—"

"I want to tell him, Mom." Anna blurted out, "I know it's dangerous and it's not safe, but wouldn't he be safer knowing? You said knowledge is power and—"

"Anna." No longer Molly Hooper, Mom knelt down in front of her with hands on both shoulders. Anna found that her breath was caught in her throat, and she couldn't say anything else, "Anna…he's not your father." Mom whispered that, wiping a tear rolling down Anna's face that she was previously unaware of.

Wordlessly, Anna pulled away and dashed out of the room, locking herself in the washroom with her knees drawn up against her chest. That had been the first time Mom had mentioned her father since she came for her.

"Hello? Anyone here?" Anna jumped slightly at her Mom's voice, knowing fully well she was the only one occupying the washroom. Her Mom stopped at Anna's stall, a foot tapping the floor, "Anna, darling, please come out."

"No."

"Look I didn't mean to—"

"Why did you let them take me, Mommy?" Anna hated herself for crying, for sounding so weak.

She could hear Mom sigh on the other side of the door, "Because…I wasn't going to be a good mother to you, and they took advantage of that. I was sad…Anna. So sad. I didn't want you to see what I would do—what I did do. I didn't want you to see what I'm like when I'm weak."

"I miss Daddy."

"So do I, Anna." Her voice suddenly rose in volume, "And we are not having the rest of this conversation in the loo, you hear me? Now get out of there, and let's go get something to eat."

* * *

Just as Molly and Anna returned, Sherlock, dressed down more than usual was about to walk through the door. Silently, Anna gave a small nod and went to her room, leaving Molly to stop him from leaving, "And where are you going?"

"Out. I have a lead, guy named Donahue."

Jonas Donahue, lord of a designer drug empire, and a man who owed Molly a favor, she quickly put on a look of concern, "And? What will you do?"

"Ask him some questions and if he fights back..." Sherlock trailed off, meaning that this really did bother him. Incomplete statements were usually a waste of time to him.

Molly nodded, "Just be back soon."

Sherlock gave no reply. As soon as he was out the door, Molly prepped to follow him, kissing Anna's forehead before walking out the door. She already knew where he was going and beat him by a good six minutes. Standing outside the club with her hands stuffed in her pockets, she looked like just another druggie trying to get a hit. People walked by, not paying her any mind, until of course, Sherlock appeared. Once he did, following him on foot was child's play. He noticed her, she could tell by the slight stiffness in his shoulders, but they continued walking, with Molly slowly drawing closer. She saw the little red marks that appeared on his chest, and didn't hesitate in tackling him. It was in that moment that she realized she had given herself up and thrown caution out the window, but as she felt the bullet whizz past her back, she didn't care.

"Stay down, idiot." She snapped when he tried to writhe beneath her.

His incredulous voice reached her, proving to her that he would never see her as Molly Hooper again, "Molly?!"

She quickly rolled off of him, and practically dragged his form behind a dumpster for safety, "Yeah, that's me." Molly shrugged amicably, before standing up, pulling her Glock from her waistband, and firing at the sniper, returning to cover.

"I'm lost." Sherlock admitted openly, shocking Molly out of silence.

"Uh let's see Donnie knew you were coming, and wasn't too pleased about it, okay this way now." She yanked him along, taking him down an alleyway, and turning corners until finally they could duck into an abandoned shop she had prepared for this purpose. Flinging the door shut and locking it, she turned on the lights of the windowless back room.

Sherlock stood, panting slightly from the chase, staring at her as if the world had ended. "Molly?" He muttered again.

"Well...that's kind of not my name. Heh. funny story." Molly rubbed the back of her head amicably, "Well not getting shot's always good, I suppose."

**Bit short, but heyyyy Sherlock knows now! I'm starting to realize that Molly's a bit like a good counterpart to Moran (at least the Moran I know from the original stories) and that was totally not on purpose. This is so much fun. Also, after this story, I do not intend to drop Sherlock at all. My friend had to make a random generator thing for a class, so he used a bunch of TV show names for crossover fics. He said that whatever crossover I get on the first try, I have to do at least five chapters of.**

**A couple minutes of weighing whether or not I actually have a life later, I pressed the button.**

**Once Upon A Time and Sherlock. **

**So...that will be interesting to say the least.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Another chapter! Hip hip-review! **

**I woke up randomly and decided to knock out this chapter, and then I knocked out more of my original work (People who take ten years to write a novel, I finally understand you, but you still infuriate me) and even did some revising. I've been productive! A miracle!**

"But you're Molly."

After that nothing but the sound of their own breathing, and the buzzing noise the old lighting possessed could be heard in the room. Molly's lips were pressed in a thin line as she stared at Sherlock, her arms crossed across her chest, not defensively, but as part of her relaxed but constantly alert stance by the door. Sherlock took in the sight of her; She had quickly thrown on the clothing she wore, a hooded jacket he didn't recognize and combat boots, old, worn, at least four years in age, a Glock, an exact replica of the one found in her flat during her kidnapping—that harrowing time seemed miles away at that moment—and her hair was down, falling in frizzing waves around her face. In short, Molly had managed to shatter any faith he had in his skills even, beyond that of Moriarty. He would have even admitted that she was his _friend._

Molly waited for him to break the silence, but his mind was still processing, still trying to piece together her story and ultimately failing miserably. He was confused, and barely heard the click of the door being unlocked from the outside. Waiting, Molly took the intruder and quietly dispatched him, slamming him against a table and cutting his jugular with a combat knife produced from a pocket. This was the new Molly that greeted him, the Molly in a greasy hoodie with blood on her hands. If he had been conceited enough, he would have thought that this happened because of him, but obviously it did not. She had years—_years—_of experience that showed themselves through muscle memory and a resigned expression.

She gave an apologetic smile, wiping her hands on her jacket and stepping over the slowly dying body, "There's always a bit of a mess, sorry." She sighed, pulling off the jacket to reveal a black tank top, and threw it in a closet, "Well that should do it. We ought to wait approximately thirty minutes before—"

"Molly." Sherlock cursed himself for repeating her name yet again, and decided to elaborate, "What are you doing here?"

With the black tank top came a number of scars that were visible along her shoulders, as well as a particularly nasty yellowing bruise.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" She gave a short and bitter laugh, "Saving your arse, I am."

"But—"

"Let's sit Sherlock." She pulled two uncomfortable stools from their places at the table, and gestured for Sherlock to sit. He did so, "This is thirty minutes, Sherlock. Twenty-eight, now actually. I'm sure you're mind palace is a wreck right now."

"I trusted you."

Molly laughed, tossing her hair back, "And you were right to. You're alive, aren't you?"

"Does Moriarty know?"

"Certainly not. If it had to be spelled out for you, then he'll be a little slow on the uptake." She leaned in on the palm of her hand, "So we should be good for a bit, yeah?"

"You lied about everything."

"Just like you lied in saying Irene Adler was dead." Sherlock jerked, looking up at her in surprise, and before he could ask, she plunged into an explanation, "I faked her death once or twice."

"…so is this some sort of habit for you?"

Molly shrugged, "I've made a bit of a name for myself for it. They call me The Reaper. Funny cliché name huh?"

Sherlock was in no mood for her random commentary, "Who are you?"

"To you, I'm Molly Hooper. I'm a pathology assistant working at St. Barts—"

"No." He hated this, he couldn't tell when she was lying, "Really."

"I'm nobody. I don't count. I slip in, I slip out, and I'm designed to fool people like you." Molly seemed almost sad about this—he couldn't tell, and that was both terrifying and infuriating—"Actually I found the major part was making myself so boring that you would never look at me twice. So Sherlock, now that I've given you a few of the pieces, and yes, the real pieces I want you to do something with this time we have." She smirked, an expression that Sherlock had never seen cross her face before, "Deduce me."

Sherlock pressed his hands together, his index fingers barely touching his mouth as he examined this Molly—this Not Molly, who sat before him, "You're early life upbringing was educated, but you also show signs of being rough and can think on your feet superbly. You're attention to detail rivals even mine allowing you to slip into disguises and new personalities seamlessly for your work. Military training and mob experience both had a hand in your combative and tactical knowledge. Most of your medical knowledge before becoming Molly Hooper was almost completely theoretical except for field dresses to quickly exit an area. Pragmatic and calculative, in any sexual encounter, you would use birth control, so Anna is a bit of a mystery at first."

"At first?"

"You wouldn't have ever had her if you knew she was going to be exposed to the dangers you are, and frankly she would have gotten in the way, so you must have been retired. Married most likely, and spent that retirement in peace until something caused you to become Molly Hooper, and caused Anna to be separated from you until a month ago. You became Molly Hooper to work for someone and encountered me.

Sherlock watched her reaction carefully, but all he received was a soft, almost mocking smile. It was uncomfortable, not knowing whether or not he was correct and very uncomfortable knowing that the woman he trusted with his life was a complete lie of a person. Reconstructing what he knew about her was difficult, and he found himself second guessing everything that he deduced and especially what she said. It was one thing for Irene Adler to trick him, but entirely another for sweet little simpering lab assistant Molly to. That Molly liked the color pink and had bad taste in boyfriends. This Molly could slit a man's throat and have a conversation over his newly dead corpse. That same smile was there, and she leaned forward with her elbows resting on her knees.

"Pretty damn close." She whispered before leaning back again, "Congratulations."

"I still don't know your name."

"My name's Molly. That's the only name I'll give you. Not even my husband knew my real name, Sherlock."

"I trusted you." He sounded like a broken record, "I trusted you, Molly."

"Good. That makes this easier, trust me to get us home and in one piece."

"You…weren't lying about shooting two snipers, were you?"

"Nor was I lying about the Jammie Dodgers. Twenty-four hour grocery services are God's gift to mankind."

Sherlock snorted, but tried to get back on track, "Who do you work for? Why are you helping me?"

"Who I'm working for is under wraps, and I'm helping you because that's what my orders are.

* * *

_Madeline did not take well to getting shot. No one in their right mind did. A burst of light blurred her vision as she slowly stumbled away from a barely claimed and very hollow victory. She didn't know where she was. Street names and blinking lights meant nothing to her, only the pain in her leg and the prospect of being caught with an illegally concealed weapon filled her mind. It was then that she ran into someone, a man walking about Toronto at three in the morning._

_"Oh, shit miss are you—you've been shot." His voice grew flat and suddenly he was lifting her, "Ah, no struggling, please I really don't want to drop you."_

_"No hospitals." Madeline managed to choke out, despite her confusion._

_People in a city saw things every day, but never did a thing about it. They developed a sense of apathy that rivaled any spoiled middle class teenager. From the start, this man was different, she knew that much. Others would make up excuses not to help her. She's drunk and limping, her bleeding leg obviously from something stupid she did. She's not my concern. I didn't see her. Yet this man was dragging her somewhere—hopefully not a hospital—and going out of his way to either help her or add insult to injury and finally kill her._

_Not once did she pass out, so she saw the building number, and knew that they were going to the third floor. She looked around the loft apartment from her position on the couch, noticing little details. Single male living alone, often at home, most likely has family money, but works as something freelance like an artist or writer—no not an artist, there is no sign of him enjoying visual art—there's an entire wall of well read books though._

_He came back, and she immediately got to add another trait to her list; medical training._

_"You're good at this." She commented, watching him sew the skin together after extracting the bullet and examining it's damage. "It's probably not safe to randomly invite strangers into your apartment."_

_"You said no hospitals." He shrugged "I'm assuming you got this doing something illegal._

_"Not illegal, per say, but incredibly stupid. Rapists don't take well to being interrupted." Madeline gave a hollow laugh, "He shot me, I stabbed him in the throat. That's where this is from." She gestured at the blood covering her shirt beneath her jacket. "So I could argue self defense, and therefore it wasn't technically illegal."_

_"But you're shady enough not to want to go to a hospital."_

_"True, true." She tried to laugh, but found that it caught in her throat, "I'm Madeline."_

_"Is that your real name?"_

_"Nope."_

_"Okay, then." He stuck out and shook her slightly limp hand, "Parker Pyne. I worked as a paramedic for a bit so I can do stuff like this, no problem. Nice to meet you."_

_"You're quite trusting, Parker Pyne." He laughed at her statement, perplexing her slightly. Madeline wasn't used to the sound of laughter, she realized, not the kind that held no bitterness._

_"Well I trust you not to murder me in my sleep."_

_"Good. I trust you not to slip cyanide in my coffee."_

* * *

Sherlock followed her, taking note of everything, from the way she walked to the way she constantly looked around as if waiting for something to leap out at them. Unsurprisingly, a man did, and he had managed to get a good cut at Molly with his knife before he was dead. Molly Hooper had always seemed like the sort to make a large deal out of injury, but even as he saw the slightly darker blood stain grow on her back, she continued walking at the exact same pace. They took an odd route to Molly's flat, and avoided cameras entirely. Her awareness of her environment was impressive, and he wondered how he could have possibly missed it.

"You're an expert." Sherlock stated, as she closed her bedroom door behind her.

"Yeah, I suppose you could say that." She called out from the other room "Oh it's dried. It won't come out." He heard her say to herself.

* * *

_"Really, you shouldn't make yourself so comfortable. You're completely healed now." Madeline didn't look at Parker, she simply wrapped her arms about her legs and continued reading a book. More specifically it was one of the textbooks he had written for forensic pathology._

_"You're good at this. Fiction and nonfiction is impressive." She spoke at last, flipping the page._

_"I would have thought you had more pressing matters to attend to than analyzing my work."_

_"Nope." Parker settled down next to her, "They think I'm dead."_

_"What?"_

_"Found a girl, looked a lot like me, with her face bashed in. Word on the street is the Reaper is dead."_

_"Oh."_

_"So Madeline de Sara is officially a librarian now. I'll probably be able to get my own place within a week or two."_

_"Librarians don't make a lot and Toronto isn't cheap—"_

_"If you want me to stay, say so." She gave a funny little half smile, and he returned it, but found that he could not sustain one for long without it broadening. _

_"Then stay."_

* * *

Molly had accidentally left the door open slightly, and when her cat rushed in, it had opened even wider. So she hadn't realized that Sherlock could see her yet, and if she did, it didn't matter. She took off her shirt, revealing dozens of scars that littered it. Two gunshot wounds, sixteen different scars made from knives, mottled skin where she had been burned—there was very little unmarred skin to be had. Sherlock realized he knew nothing about Molly and when she made her claim, it had been legitimate. She really had shot two snipers in the head. Then there was the gash she had tended to quickly with butterfly band aids and gauze, adding to the complete puzzle.

She was the girl in the skylight.

"Where are those from?" He asked before remembering that it generally wasn't good form to comment on a topless girl's appearance.

She craned her neck to look at him as she tossed a T-shirt over her head, "Oh. Loads of things, bad fights mainly. That weird star shaped one's from the time that a Russian lady decided to run me down in her car."

Sherlock didn't notice how close he was until he reached out and touched the gunshot wound on her left shoulder, feeling the scarred tissue beneath his fingertips. Molly stiffened beneath his touch, but didn't move away, "Who are you?"

"What's important is that I'm helping you." She turned towards him, placing a hand on his chest and looking up into his eyes with intensity that he wondered how he could have possibly missed, "I'm helping you, Sherlock, so whatever you say next, don't delete that from your mind."

"How long?"

"For the duration of my stay at Barts." He didn't know why she was still touching him, still trying to inspire a closeness that was gone, and arguably never there, but he didn't recoil from her touch, "I'm a friend."

"You lied to me."

Molly drew closer, "Yes, yes I did. Your greatest weakness is that you do not pay any mind to that which is boring. Things have to be complicated, or you don't notice them, you delete them. That's what you did to me, over and over again. Someone had to protect that weakness of yours. Otherwise you would have been dead long ago."

"And what did you have to gain from that?"

She smiled, poking him in the forehead, "Money and my daughter, silly."

He asked it before he could think better of it, "Did you ever actually like me?"

Out loud, it sounded even more silly, childlike, and _sentimental _than he had anticipated.

"If I didn't, I'd probably have shot you myself. You're very high maintenance you know."

**Thank you everyone for all the reviews! I can't tell you how lovely it makes me feel.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Another chapter! Thank you my lovely reviewers! I can't believe I've almost hit fifty reviews already with my first serious story!**

What Sherlock still couldn't figure out was how Molly managed to hide her scars the one time he had ever seen her without the long heavy sleeves of a lab coat. They were flat, rather than consisting of quite a bit of scar tissue layered on top of each other, so he supposed it was possible that she had covered it with something, latex possibly. He hadn't been paying any attention at all. If he had looked at her, really looked, then he would have seen the irregular patches on her shoulder. She was correct in hiding in plain sight, and wrapping herself in a cloud of boring.

When Anna woke up, Molly was acted just as she did before, perfectly ordinary, a mother happy to see her daughter. Molly—not Molly—what is he supposed to call her if she isn't a Molly? Molly it must remain, then until he did more digging. Yet it was nice, he supposed, to have her look over his shoulder, always touching it lightly as if bracing herself, and see what he was doing, and actually comprehend it. Originally he had intended to keep his activities secret, and hopefully away from harming Molly, but with her working ahead of him he couldn't find an objection to working together.

Anna stayed home, with them, occupying herself quite nicely with various games on the computer, books, and of course torturing the cat. Sherlock really didn't get the cat, or why someone as practical and frankly mercenary as this Molly would keep him around. Sometimes, he would try to deduce her, even though he already knew who she was, he was still able to get different results. The callouses could mean she played an instrument, shot a gun, or used a scalpel often.

Molly leaned over his shoulder, looking at his work, "Toronto, Moscow, Tokyo. Looks like we're going to be busy."

"We?"

"Well duh. It's the most efficient method we have."

"You have a child."

"And she's probably less of a problem than you are."

"Really I'm a bit like a pet rock." Anna strolled in, a plate of Jammie Dodgers in one hand and _Don Quixote_ in the other. "Well except that I'm a biological organism and I talk…okay so I'm not very much a bit like a pet rock…so Mom, where are we going?"

"Toronto first."

"Oh good! Can I visit grandma?! I haven't seen her at all."

"—I think we can manage that." Molly's expressed darkened almost imperceptibly.

* * *

_"Here you are, Madi." Parker sat down next to her on the bench, "One perfectly piping hot fully caffeinated coffee, black two sugars, just as you like."_

_Madeline had been watching the children on the playground before them as they played out little scenarios of the real world. One girl was being pushed about and having her hair pulled, reminding her so much of herself when she had been small. Suddenly the girl caught her eye and smiled a small smile before pulling the boys down with her body weight, knocking their heads together painfully. Yes, that girl was very much like her. She turned towards Parker, looking at the coffee and then at him, but not taking it._

_"I'm not drinking that."_

_Parker stiffened, sticking his bottom lip out as he was prone to do when he was upset, "What?! I got it right! Black! Two sugars! Tell me what was wrong with that?"_

_"Nothing." Madeline gave a small shrug, "It's just um I think caffeine is one of those things you're supposed to not do when you're pregnant."_

_The Styrofoam cups crumpled as his hands automatically became fists. The hot burning liquid poured all over his lap, staining his white trousers, but all he could do was stare back at her, as she rearranged her scarf. She knew she shouldn't have casually said it in the course of a normal conversation, however she assumed it would have been crueler to do so while he was actually drinking his beverage. _

_"So…pregnant huh?"_

_"Yup."_

_He gave a small nod, staring out at the little screaming children that suddenly seemed much louder and much more obnoxious than before, "You always seemed to be the sort to—"_

_"What? Abort? There's not much need for that now, is there? I'm financially stable, and not exactly on the run. Most would agree that the conditions are ideal for this sort of thing."_

_Parker chuckled, leaning back against the bench, and wrapping an arm around her shoulders, "Well then, I think the normal people thing to do is to get married."_

_"Since when are we considered normal?"_

_"Well I think it would only serve to benefit you. Marry me, become a Pyne, and then your name will actually be fifty-percent real. Also my parents would be far less likely to cut me off."_

_"At least we wouldn't have to do any more holiday parties."_

_"Madi, I like my parents very much."_

_"Okay. Well marriage doesn't sound that entirely bad."_

_"of course there will be a big wedding—"_

_"I'm drawing the line there."_

* * *

Molly and Sherlock planned out everything from logistics to contingencies, to the way they would get to and most likely kill their targets. Sherlock acted like it would be easy, like everything would play out the way in his head. On the other hand, Molly didn't think it would go smoothly. Such operations rarely ever did. Instead of one always something, such inconsistencies always managed to get up to the dozens by the end of an operation. There were just too many moving parts, and too many moving parts within those parts and so on and so forth. They could get killed by a drunk driver before they even reached their destination.

Sherlock never actually lived with dying odds before, not for an extended period of time.

She sighed, packing some clothing, and flipping through the pages she had printed. A nine hour flight was plenty of time to read it, and so she tossed it at Sherlock. She spent all night working on it, making sure there were no inconsistencies whatsoever.

* * *

Sherlock looked down at the paper, held together by a binder clip, "What's this?"

"It's your life. Memorize it."

Sherlock then realized how Molly could have fooled him She wrote a detailed two hundred and fifty page account of the life and personality of a man who didn't exist. This man played viola, not violin, he disliked others and often didn't like going outside, and he had a number of habits that she expected Sherlock to adopt, essentially turning him into a different person. Anna sat across the room, perched at the end of the sofa with a similar bundle of paper.

"Mom wanted to be a writer. She's good at making up characters."

"I see."

"Dad tried to get her to publish, but she was scared that it would blow up in her face." Anna shrugged, "I guess it's a good thing people don't know of her craftsmanship now." Anna seemed sad, "She loves making things up."

"Anna, it sounds like you're trying to say something important."

"She loves making things up…so don't be surprised if…if everything she's ever said to you was a lie." Anna drew her knees against her chest, wrapping her arms about them, "I don't hate you. So be careful, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock eyed the girl before him. A child who lost her father, who was much too wise for her age, who lived a great amount of time without her mother, would develop a severe mistrust of the world. It was clear that while she loved and trusted her mother, she was still wary of what Molly would do to others. This warning wasn't made lightly, nor was it the delusion of a child.

"Point taken." He turned the page, but apparently Anna wasn't done.

"You're a bit like my Dad. His name was Parker, Parker Pyne. He wrote mysteries, they're pretty popular, still. He was super smart, and could tell someone's life story from a glance…but he was nicer than you. He adored Mommy."

"Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side."

Anna flopped down on the floor with a dramatic sigh "Sentiment is why I'm still alive. Did she not tell you? He stepped in front of a gun for me."

* * *

_Madeline sat next to a woman in the doctor's office. She had just observed the woman as she had her husband carry everything, ordered him about, and finally relaxed in the chair with a huge sigh. He seemed very pleased when he got the chance to leave. Parker on the other hand sat, lingering quite close, playing with the ends of her hair._

_"Look It's going to be another hour. I know you're excited, but put that nervous energy somewhere else. Curb your enthusiasm. Go annoy the police or something. Run free little stallion." Madeline gave him a push and a prod._

_"Or I can go get you frozen yogurt."_

_"If you want to." Madeline shrugged. Honestly a frozen yogurt did sound pretty good to her._

_He left, leaving Madeline with the woman who, judging by the size of her stomach was just as far along. As soon as the door closed, the woman turned towards her, "You really don't know how to do this do you?"_

_"What do you mean?"_

_"You're allowed to be crazy, obsessive, needy, and easily upset when you're pregnant; it's like one big get out of jail free card. You can make them do anything for you and you can get away with it! They'll pick stuff up for you, hold back your hair when you get sick, and cook for you! It's wonderful!"_

_"But Parker's a bad cook and I can get stuff myself."_

_"He doesn't know that!"_

_"And I don't particularly feel the urge to be irrational."_

_"He doesn't know that!"_

_"And I don't get morning sickness."_

_"He doesn't—wait you don't vomit? You're one of the twenty damn percent of the population of pregnant women that don't puke? Okay, fine, whatever, you win."_

_"…sorry. I've been told I might on the next one though."_

* * *

Molly tracked down Donatella Marcelli easily, and managed to pay her off instead of actually killing her. Killing was definitely easier, but Donatella could still possibly be useful. So much of her contacts were caught up in Moriarty's web, it was almost sickening the loss she would suffer when it came to information. _No. _She corrected herself quickly. After this was done, after she had gotten Sherlock off her back, it would be just Molly and Anna living somewhere nice and quiet—maybe somewhere warm.

She watched Sherlock fidget nervously, spouting off all the random things he knew about airplanes. It could have almost been considered endearing to her. Anna was already fast asleep, having drifted off to a documentary detailing the historical origins of fairytales. Sighing at Sherlock's nervous energy, Molly sat next to him, coaxing him to lay down.

* * *

With Molly's hands guiding him, Sherlock laid his head on her lap, and felt her hands rest against his hair before beginning to run through it. This action felt good, despite the fact that Molly was basically petting him much like she would pet a cat. He liked this, however different this real Molly was, she retained a great amount of the warmth Molly Hooper possessed. He still trusted her; he still felt warm and oddly enough protected when she was around.

"You're a lot like Parker, you know."

"So your daughter has told me."

"He was more honest to himself about everything. While you blurt out facts about others, I don't think he could go five minutes without giving me an update on how he was feeling. Happy, sad, angry, pleased, he never kept it from me. Now you, you try much harder. You're stubborn. You won't even admit you like me running my hands through your hair."

She was right, he wouldn't.

**So there wasn't much in this chapter, more backstory really, only a bit more interaction between the three.**


	11. Chapter 11

**Good news! Another Chapter! Bad news, I have this great need for a future and for that I have to do things like school. I have to do things like school in order to get a job, I have to get a job in order to keep living in order to continue working. It's a vicious cycle, the point of which I haven't quite figured out, but it basically means I might be updating less than usual.**

**Well enough of that! I don't own Sherlock and I also have a question for my lovely readers!**

**If Molly Hooper was a fairytale character, who do you think she would be (The more obscure the fairytale, the more I'll like you.**

**And I also ask the same of Anthea! **

**Enough of that as well, and enjoy!**

Two months into taking down Moriarty's web, Sherlock sat and briefly wondered how his life choices had led him to holding a few stuffed animals and a bunch of balloons while Anna Pyne—daughter of the Not-Molly-Hooper was playing darts on some sort of game. This infernal festival of sorts was Molly's idea of giving Anna a break (AKA getting rid of the two of them so that she could interrogate the man she had hidden in the closet) and he had to spend at least two more hours with her in the brightly lit rat maze of an attraction. Anna threw the darts with accuracy that suggested muscle memory.

Deducing Anna was entertaining. She, like Molly, had a puzzling air about her.

"I want cotton candy." Anna declared, throwing her next prize (A green stuffed teddy bear) on top of the pile accumulating in Sherlock's arms.

"Cotton candy is just sugar heated and spun to make a fiber like—"

"I don't care, I want cotton candy, and I want it now."

As his hands were occupied, Anna took his wallet and walked up to the vender herself, purchasing a cone covered in pink cotton candy. She returned with it triumphantly, a grin spreading across her face, "Okay, now let's have some real fun."

Sherlock really didn't want to know what this real fun she spoke of was. He had already endured Go Carts, a stupidly simple maze, a lackluster haunted house, a Ferris wheel being used far too long past its expiration date, and God help him; a merry go round. Whatever else Anna had up her sleeve, it really couldn't be good, and he really didn't want to try and figure it out beforehand, thus only increasing the dread.

So he didn't expect it when they plopped down on a bench about five yards away from the outhouses of the carnival, and within a good viewing distance of the entrance/exit. Sherlock put the useless plushy toys to the side (couldn't she buy those online if she wanted them so bad without making him go through this?) and leaned back, glad at last that he wasn't being forced to go on any other rides.

And then Anna began, spotting a girl walking out of the loo and washing her hands at the mobile water dispenser.

"Twenty-three year old college graduate. Recently married, she's known him since high school at least, she's quite pleased with herself, and her match, but thinks she could have done something more with her life. She doesn't want children but he does, causing a bit of friction between them. She recently got an interview that involves going to Victoria, and she's nervous about telling him, but in the end she'll probably make the push for her career. Oh she's also lactose intolerant too, but likes to eat ice cream anyway." Anna took an enormous bite of her treat and spoke through it, "Your turn!"

This was his favorite game, "Thirty-seven year old man who has been married twice, and both times divorced messily. He's taking the offspring resulting from each marriage out for the day. They don't get along because of some ridiculous feud over having different mothers, and are constantly vying for his attention. He's also a heavy smoker and an alcoholic, a fact he conceals from his offspring."

"You pick the one's with screwed up lives on purpose." Anna rolled her eyes.

"I observe what I see."

"And I see a perfectly happy couple standing right off to the side. You could have deduced them."

"But I didn't."

Anna pouted, "You're ruining my favorite game."

"On the contrary, I think this is what makes it more entertaining."

"…I guess."

* * *

_Madeline sat, drumming her hands on her swollen stomach, and occasionally feeling the alien creature within her move. She supposed that this was domestic bliss. Anna's already talking, and Parker was ecstatic about having another kid on the way, and this time a boy. They would be the perfect little nuclear unit probably complete with idiotic soccer practices, college funds, tears (oh yes, there were already lots of tears) and more interference from Parker's mother a Mrs. Abigail Pyne._

_She was at their home again, piddling around the family room and picking up the hazardous wake of destruction Anna left. "Really, you should discipline her more, Madeline!"_

_"She's three, she's a genius, and she's bored. What did you really expect?"_

_"You could trip and fall."_

_"Only if I suddenly forgot the layout of Anna's toys in the next five minutes, after you've practically lifted me off the couch because her brother has decided to take after the moon."_

_Abigail tisked openly, "I really don't know what Parker sees in you."_

_"An attractive member of the opposite sex?_

_"Sarcasm and smartassing aren't becoming of you."_

_"To you, nothing is becoming of me."_

_"I'm going to blame the hormones and stress of pregnancy for your indiscretion."_

_"I'm going to blame that cocktail and all of those overlapping scripts for yours."_

* * *

Molly returned to their new flat—no apartment, they were in Canada after all—but noticed immediately that the door was ajar. There were several other clues as to who was inside like the way the doormat was turned, and how a sticker with the letter M was on the door handle. Quietly, Molly sent Anna a text before even thinking about entering. She sighed, and walked inside, turning on the lights to find (surprise, surprise) Moriarty. He smiled at her.

"Oh, Molly what a surprise! It was horrible how you suddenly just up and disappeared! You're friends are a bit worried about you, but they were placated by the lovely little emails you've sent. And apparently dear Sherlock has been going around killing members of my precious web. Do you know how that makes me feel, Molly dear?"

_Well I hope it makes you feel like you got kicked in the balls._

Shaking her head, Molly made no attempt to run, and instead sat down on the sofa directly across from him.

"What is it, Molly?" He laughed, "Cat got your tongue?"

"Leave."

Moriarty blinked, the only indication that he did not expect that, "Oh have you developed a bit of steel in my absence? I suppose that's correct considering you're on the run with a fake detective killer and your daughter."

"He's not fake."

"Yes, but the world would like to think otherwise, wouldn't it?"

"He's not fake, he's definitely not here, and you are not going to get me to do anything stupid." From inside the sofa cushion, she pulled out a gun and pointed it directly at James Moriarty. "Also I've got this."

For the first time ever, real confusion, fear, admiration, and surprise clouded his countenance, and stiffly Moriarty rose, "Well. That's a surprise. How long have you—"

She fired, past him the moment she saw the tip of another weapon peek out from the door, hitting the hand of Sebastian Moran. He roared in pain but before Molly fired again, Moriarty rose his hand, "Enough. Sebby and I shall leave for the time being, Miss Hooper."

"I ought to inform you that's not actually my name. Then again, James Moriarty isn't exactly yours now is it?"

She watched their rather pathetic retreat quietly before searching the apartment, thoroughly. Nothing was out of place. Finally she allowed herself the tiniest feeling of relief before calling Anna.

* * *

"Anna Honey I want you to do something." Anna heard from the other line.

"What is it?" Sherlock straightened up immediately, and Anna surmised that he had figured out who she was talking to.

"You've got those emergency papers sewn into the lining of your bag. Use them. Right now, you and Sherlock need to go to your grandmothers. She should give you a place to stay for a bit. You remember where she lives right? She's a sentimental old bat after all."

"Yes of course but Mom, what's going on?"

"I'm going on a bit of a manhunt, Anna. You two don't need to be caught up in the crossfire, kay?"

"Sherlock's not going to like this."

"Make him listen."

Anna hung up, feeling Sherlock staring at her expectantly, "We get to go to Grandma's house for a bit."

"Why?"

"Mom's deemed the situation too dangerous for us to return to the apartment."

"And we should listen—"

"Because Mom's nearly always right and because she used 'honey' while talking to me."

"Honey…?"

"Yes. She calls me darling, Sherlock Holmes, you of all people should have noticed that. She only calls me another pet name when something's wrong." Anna pressed her lips in a thin line, looking at her shoes, "Grandma's going to be so pissed off. She hasn't seen me since I threw up on her shoes at my violin recital."

* * *

While Sherlock was thoroughly amused that Not-Molly-Hooper could have something like in law troubles (it was like imagining Anthea having an argument with the dry cleaners) he was not pleased with being sent to said in law without any idea of what Molly was doing. He hated it, and realized with a bitter smile that this was probably one of the things that annoyed John the most about him. For all he knew, Molly could be dead—not a happy thought and quite unnecessary please leave that territory of the mind palace immediately—or more likely trying to take on Moriarty herself. He resolved that once he dumped Anna at this Abigail Pyne's house, he would proceed to track her down.

Abigail Pyne lived in a house built in the style of the twenties, with a large front porch and paint that had been recently refurbished. He took note of the meticulous order of the lawn, and obviously well used swing as they walked up the sidewalk. Anna rang her doorbell, biting her lip nervously. Movements inside alerted Sherlock of someone walking to the door, and then it swung open, revealing the woman of the house.

Blonde hair, obviously dyed, wrinkles indicating that she didn't smile a lot, clean to the point of obsessiveness, she was glaring—Sherlock's musings were interrupted by the woman as she spoke, "Annabella Remington Pyne, what the hell are you doing here, who the hell is that, and where the hell is that useless mother of yours?!"

Sherlock found the urge to punch a woman who was rather close to Mrs. Hudson's age peculiar, but he brushed it to the side. Anna stepped forward bravely, "Mom's busy. She'll be coming by later. I—I wanted to see you, grandma."

Oh brilliant, Molly's offspring could lie too, "I'm basically the escort." Sherlock gave a small wave.

"Great Madeline, you've done it now. I guess you should come in then."

Anna and Sherlock sat next to each other on a faded pink sofa, Anna with a mug of hot chocolate, and Sherlock with the worst cup of tea he ever had the displeasure of tasting. Across from him sat the stern, although rather nervous woman.

"Five years. Five years and she just dumps you on me like a—"

"She didn't dump me, I wanted to visit, and she said it was safe enough to, now." Anna retorted.

"Really, I should just keep you here, she obviously doesn't know how to stay still, let alone be a good mother." She sighed, crossing her arms, "I'm glad she hasn't gotten you killed—"

"IT WAS MY FAULT, GRANDMA!" Suddenly all the composure that Anna had was gone as she shrieked and covered her head, tearing at her hair.

* * *

_A girl sat beneath her father's desk, taking the pigtails from her hair. She absolutely hated them anyway; they were a much too idiotic style for her. Only her dolls kept her company in her tiny dark place, and it remained her sanctuary from the evils outside ever since she could remember. Nothing mattered when she was beneath the desk. Suddenly a sharp knock from above alerted her of another presence._

_"What do you want?"_

_"Da wants you, little sis."_

_"I'll come in a moment."_

_"No you'll come now." He dragged her out from beneath the desk and into the open of the study. Their eyes met, and all she saw was the cold—no bored—expression of her brother Someday, she hoped for a time when she could stare into his eyes and not feel afraid._

* * *

Molly woke up in a dark room and noticed that her hands were bound to the arms of her chair, and the pain in her neck was probably from sleeping in an upright position. She groaned, feeling her bruised and cut flesh, and bit her split lip unconsciously. A small light clicked on, and Moriarty emerged from the shadows frowning at him.

"You beat my favorite sniper to death with a lawn chair, Molly Hooper."

"He threatened my darling, daughter, James." Molly gave him a waning smile, "He simply had to die, after that. So, big brave Moriarty, what are you gonna do to me?" She stared into his eyes, more likely she glared into them.

Moriarty laughed, "How could I have not seen this? Little Molly Hooper head over heels for a man who will never love you, is actually in fact a lie! Ha! You've protected him for a long time now, haven't you? I'd like you to step aside then. This game is just him and me—"

"Oh bull fucking shit. This has never been about you and Sherlock Holmes. This is about your boredom, you're fixations, the emptiness that has eaten you up since you were a God damned child! I'm quite sick of it, I'm so sick of Sherlock and I'm so sick of you! Now I'm going to say something, and after that, you're going to untie me."

Moriarty leaned in, so close that Molly could feel his hot breath, "And what is that?"

She let a smile spread across her face, "I'm not afraid of you. Blood is thicker than water, dear brother did you really think I abandoned you?"

**Don't kill me! I know it's a cliffhanger! I promise I know what I am doing...ish**


	12. Chapter 12

**As a reward for your patience I bring you an extra long chapter! (Well extra long by a few dozen words but still) I'm also writing a very strange Halloween themed Sherlolly story for the purpose of clearing writer's block, so check it out if you like, though I wouldn't exactly call it a masterpiece.**

**I do not own Sherlock nor do I own any clever ways of stating that (because owning ideas is a lot like owning dust mites) **

**Reviewers Get Cookies!**

**Also I'd love to thank some of my more enthusiastic reviewers who wrote quite the expletive filled reviews that just really made my day. I adore you guys and I'm glad you like my story.**

Molly Hooper was supposed to be simple. She was supposed to be a single thirty-something with a job that equally fascinated her and repelled others when she so desperately craved human contact. She was supposed to love kittens and puppies and of course; Sherlock Holmes. It was simple really, to trick her, especially when he managed to trick Sherlock. Moriarty sat on the sofa and watched glee with her, pet her cat, and talked to her about how wonderful things could be. Of course, he was lying. What he never—ever suspected was that the same sweet Molly Hooper was this creature, this completely insane animal before him. He overlooked her, and sadly—or maybe not so sadly, it was a bit entertaining actually, Sebastian Moran was paying the price.

First, she took advantage of seeing him before he saw her. She knocked him down by the small of his back, to his knees and had every weapon on him in a matter of seconds. Instead of killing him like that, however, a few words were exchanged between the pair before she ran taking apart and discarding the guns and knives, out of reach to both of them. Despite her height and gender, she had the advantage of being younger, faster, and let's face it more intelligent. Moriarty was sure that Moran had threatened her offspring, and thus fueled Molly with anger and adrenaline. A hunter could easily kill a mother bear, but once the hunter had no rifle, then the angry bear is the surefire winner. In the process, she received quite a beating, but eventually grabbed for a broken (pink it was very pink) foldable lawn chair by the dumpster and began whacking Moran's unconscious form in key places like the neck.

WHACK! She says something probably an insult.

WHACK! Yet another insult.

WHACK! She was smiling now, a pleased little smile with her handiwork.

In short, sweet little sunny Molly Hooper had just beaten Sebastian Moran to death with a lawn chair.

Moriarty found that this unexpected incident was incredibly entertaining. It added a whole new dimension to the game. He watched through the camera as she staggered and fell to her knees, obviously about to pass out from the injuries she sustained. What was her motivation? Is it still love for Sherlock or something else entirely? Could she be swayed to his side? She was obviously capable of playing double agent if she had fooled Moriarty; therefore that could be useful. Sherlock must be aware of it, for her to be there instead of Sherlock. He had to admit he had been impressed that the existence of a child flew over his head. Could he use the child to—oh she's asleep, better send someone to pick her up then—no…she's far too clever for that.

Molly Hooper wasn't a pawn—no she was another player entirely.

* * *

Anna sighed, realizing that she had screamed, "Sorry about the noise." She murmured, feeling Sherlock give her an awkward pat on the back. She smiled ruefully at him before standing up, observing her still shaken grandma with a sigh, "Don't blame her, she never told you the entire story."

"No she whisks you away in the night before I can demand an explanation!"

"Fine, do you want to know what happened then?" Anna sighed, feeling ages older than she actually was, "When the robbers came to our house, I panicked and they shot Daddy and accidentally shot Vincent…I was kidnapped by people too smart for the police, and Mom spent years trying to find me and a while ago she finally did. Then the people she was working for—" She gestured towards Sherlock, "Had her relocate him because of—"

"Moriarty." Unexpectedly, Abigail finished for her, "Look, he's Sherlock Holmes and I'm not an idiot. If he's still alive and Madeline is protecting him, then Moriarty wasn't just an actor. See? I can be clever too." She rolled her eyes and knelt down in front of Anna, "I'm sure it wasn't your fault. It wasn't your mother's fault either, I am just frustrated, but very glad to see you. Okay?"

Anna nodded, feeling a tear streak down her cheek, one that Grandma Abbey (as it seemed fit to call her again) wiped away with her thumb.

Throughout this, Sherlock was silent, obviously locked up in his mind palace where the others couldn't touch him. His hand, however, was still against Anna's lower back, rubbing calm gentle circles, most likely unaware of the fact that he was doing so. This saddened Anna. She liked Sherlock, but she knew her mother's plans most likely didn't involve him in the long run. If Anna had her way they would be a loving and kind couple much like her mother and Parker, but instead it seemed as if they barely tolerated each other's presence.

Sherlock was easier to read. He felt cheated. Molly wasn't who he thought he was, who he had come to admire and trust, who he had grown to befriend and possibly even fancy.

Anna could never actually tell what the fuck her mother was thinking. The disguises confused her, the sweet words said by Molly Hooper being different from that of her mother, and different still from the Reaper, the woman who could make grown men fall to their knees crying, begging for mercy. She realized, sitting there with Grandma Abbey as she absently watched a crappy television show, and Sherlock as he searched his mind palace for an answer to his woes, that the mother she had grown up with, the mother who was married to Parker Pyne and worked at the library could have just been another crafty lie.

And this time, Anna wanted to fall for it. She wanted her Mom back. Was that so much to ask?

* * *

Dear brother, dear brother, dear brother, dear brother, dear brother, dear brother.

No it's impossible. Not even improbable—completely impossible.

She's supposed to be dead.

He made sure of it, years later when he had the resources. Someone else was using her name, but it certainly wasn't her, and the idiot woman openly admitted it. Couldn't kill her but he could use her.

His sister is dead.

_Then again so are you, three times over._

* * *

_She was ridiculously infuriatingly boring, always hiding beneath their father's desk as if it would actually protect her from everything. He wasn't so stupid as to be terrified by every little thing that happened to cross his path, certainly making him to the better of the siblings. On the off occasion she came out to play, she refused his games._

_"They're stupid." She crossed her arms._

_"Come on, Charlie you ought to—"_

_"Charlie is not my name, why do you call me that?"_

_"Cos you look like a Charlie."_

_"My name's not even Charlotte, or Carlotta, or anything resembling Charlie."_

_"I call you Charlie cos you hate it."_

_"Fine, then." She crossed her arms, "I don't hate it, call me Charlie."_

_He smirked, "You fell for it."_

_"Don't care. This isn't a game, Jaime."_

_This isn't a game. He hated it when she said that, like she was the more adult one, the smarter one. Of course he would prove her wrong, he would prove them all wrong. He was the smartest, mother said so. Who cared if father much preferred his daughter to his son? He wondered what would happen if he tried hiding beneath the desk. Well…he'd probably get stomped on. It's a stupid place to go anyway._

* * *

Molly pointedly refused to rub her wrists, realizing what an idiotic predicament she had gotten herself into. It seemed that at last, after all these years; she finally introduced her own game. However long it took, this was the endgame and the final stretch.

Jaime—no Moriarty, refer to him as Moriarty in your mind and you won't slip up—smiled warmly, holding out the medical kit, "You're supposed to be dead, little sis. Didn't even recognize you."

"I'm not surprised. You're supposed to be dead too, you know."

"Well, let's call this a family tradition then."

"You've caused quite a lot of trouble. I fear Mammy would be ashamed of you—well us. She'd definitely be ashamed of the both of us. Least I can say I didn't go around blowing up blind old ladies."

"Yeah, but you did beat a man to death with a lawn chair."

"You're never going to let that go, are you?"

"So, little sis, tell me? Are you on the side of angels or demons in this game?"

"I don't play your games. Never did, never had."

"So if we aren't going to play my game why aren't we going to try to kill each other?"

"Sentiment."

"I don't think that's going to hold."

"Fine then. We're going to play a game, but this time it will be my game. I'll make up the rules when I don't have a throbbing headache. So far the reason we're both going to walk away from this situation alive is quite simple. I can easy out maneuver you even injured at this very moment, I've always been the more athletic one. Once you've disagreed, I will go and shoot your favorite plaything in the head. Won't even give him time to feel pain."

"You're bluffing obviously. You find him just as entertaining."

"It's safe to say that you're very much mistaken if you think you know me. I'm not nine, anymore. You didn't even recognize me, no matter how close you got, even better, you didn't even realize I was anything other than an overly cheerful individual working in the morgue that you could use to get to Sherlock Holmes. I've been watching you, and you've never even noticed." She settled in the chair again, rolling her neck with a loud and painful crack, "I missed you, silly."

* * *

_She was beneath her father's desk again, her little sanctuary away from Jaime and away from Mammy. There was an argument between them, eventually Da was reduced to sobs, begging. A strange click and then an eardrum shattering crack ensued. She squeaked, but covered her mouth just in time, trying very hard not to cry out as a warm sticky liquid began to stain her socks. The laughing was what she remembered most: and then there was that mad glint in her mother's eyes when she forced her daughter to crawl out from beneath the desk and face her. _

_Her eyes were blue, not a soft sweet sky blue, but icy cold and watery. Her hair was disheveled and her clothing splattered in blood, making the little girl more aware of the blood staining her socks and her father's limp form. This was it, she would die like this, just like her father. The strangest thing was that she really felt no fear but rage. It boiled, coursing through her, and forced her to take action in that instant—for Da—for me._

* * *

Moriarty pulled up his own chair, sitting with his fist beneath his chin, staring at her—no he was glaring actually. Molly was thinking about everything. She thought about every single detail she cataloged about Sherlock and Moriarty, the lies that piled up around them, _Anna, _yes Anna, a result of a mistake where she thought she could possibly be redeemed. A life alone and blissful much like she had with Parker those few short years was so far out of her reach at that moment. It had been an illusion cruelly ripped away, as her life was ultimately defined by the man sitting in front of her. It always had been. There hadn't been a moment in the world where she existed independent of him. He had been born first after all.

"You ruined my life, sister dear."

Molly threw back her head and laughed, "I know!" She sobered immediately, aware of the high she received from this confrontation, feeling it buzz in her skull, "You're one of us. Expose your throat, and ultimately we will step on it."

"You're colder than me, 'Molly' don't you get any excitement out of anything?"

"Well killing Mam had given me quite the rush."

Ten minutes later, she stalked out the best she could with a limp. Moran had managed to get a good jab at her leg, and she still felt a trickle of blood. Moriarty wouldn't follow her. His expression told her everything. For the first time, Molly would play the game and she had a feeling she wouldn't enjoy it. The kitchen of her mother in law was too bright and new for her tastes, filled with white countertops and stainless steel, and cream colored cabinets. It didn't bring warmth like a kitchen ultimately should, instead feeling more like she was in a hospital. Rolling her eyes, Molly dragged herself onto the countertop and began to patch herself up.

Abigail stood at the doorway in her pajamas with her arms crossed, a familiar fixture of Molly's life in paradise. "Where have you been, Madeline?"

Molly gave her a grim smile, "Family reunion."

"You're Irish again."

"Huh?"

"Your accent is Irish. You only ever spoke like that when you talked in your sleep."

"Oh." Molly gave a shaky laugh, sliding down to the bench, and feeling Abigail press a cup of orange juice into her hands, "I'm sorry."

Abigail rolled her eyes, settling down and taking a huge swig of her juice, "Don't be. But that man? I know him; he's that obnoxious Brit detective. Supposed to be dead, yeah? Is he safe?"

Molly thought about Sherlock for a moment, allowing herself to smile a little, "He's fine, Abigail. Just a bit eccentric, but very clever. Like Anna, a little like Parker if I may say so myself. Just a little though. It'll be fine. It will all be fine…." She trailed off with a displeased sigh, realizing she couldn't actually back up that claim.

"…you're going to die, aren't you?"

Molly shrugged, turning to stare at her directly in the eyes, "Probably." She sighed, laying her head on the cold white granite countertop.

* * *

Sherlock heard Abigail's voice, a resigned, somewhat sad tone could be taken from it, "You're going to die, aren't you?"

His mind froze and skipped, and he could barely catch the confirmation made by Molly. Eavesdropping was a useful skill, even if John told him it was incredibly rude. Without it, he would not have heard this. What was the situation? How dire is everything for her to be making such statements? Where was she? What happened? Why isn't she telling him? It was all very annoying of Molly not to keep him updated on her progress. Before, it wouldn't have mattered. He would have assumed that Molly would take a backburner role in taking down Moriarty's web. He assumed she would be the one to patch him up, to offer kind words when he felt particularly downtrodden but wasn't about to admit it.

How did she end up being the hero in the matter?

"It actually might be better this way—" Molly went on to say, and how the hell could she say something like that?

"Absolutely not. Madeline, or Molly, or whatever the fuck your name is, you better not get yourself killed out of some delusional concept of what is best for Anna or best for that obnoxious Brit." Sherlock realized that Abigail was referring to him, "Anna is innocent in all of this. Yes, if something happens, I will gladly do my best to raise her, but you damn well do your best NOT TO DIE. You're a killer. You're a person who inspires strife. You have identity issues, but I know one thing for certain; you are Anna's mother, and you are my daughter in law. As far as mothers go, you spoil her a bit, but compared to the freaks who drown their kids in the bath or make them eat their own vomit, you're one of the best. As a daughter in law, it would be nice if you actually called once in a while, but other than that, you're satisfactory."

"…well…hi Abigail." Molly gave a small laugh, but soon grew grave, "This is…difficult." Molly admitted this very begrudgingly.

"I remember when you just had Anna—" Oh great, sentiment, "And you were pretty drugged up and Parker hadn't slept for days, and do you know what you said to the nurse when she asked about names?"

Molly snorted, "Yes."

"You said 'Let's wait until I'm not high off my ass and my husband isn't sleep deprived before we name this thing that I managed to pop out.'" Abigail laughed, "I had my doubts about you, but I decided at that moment that you were all right. You're still all right, really you are."

"And you're still operating on almost a split personality."

"I'm glad some things haven't changed then."

"Sherlock, I know you're listening." Molly's taunting tone suddenly reached Sherlock's ears, and he quickly determined how to proceed.

Sherlock stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked in casually, sitting down as if this information hadn't startled him. Molly looked horrible. Abigail poured him a glass of orange juice. Involuntarily, he reached out and touched the broken skin on her lip, and then stroked the good patch of skin beneath her eyes, "What happened?" He hated seeing Molly hurt. Even if she was logically more inclined to violence than him, he still felt as if these injuries should be his own.

"Well I kind of sort of beat Sebastian Moran to death with a pink lawn chair."

Sherlock had no idea why the three of them found that so funny, but it may have had something to do with the Everclear that Abigail had mixed into the orange juice.

**Review my darlings! Even if you just type an "A" below it would make me very happy since it would make me seem like a more popular writer than I actually am! Until next time.**


	13. Chapter 13

**So this happy writer is back with another chapter! Applaud me! I didn't sleep last night, so I was writing the entire time. Thank you to the people who actually just wrote "A" on the reviews. I have a new goal in mind, and that is to reach somewhere between 80 and 85 reviews before updating again. So happy readers please review! Unhappy readers uhh...why are you still reading this at chapter thirteen? O.O **

There were many things Sherlock couldn't bear. Stupid people (AKA almost everyone) people that were just as intelligent as him (arguably Moriarty, Mycroft, and Irene Adler) leading him to the prospect that he just really didn't like people. However, he failed to take into account the fact that there were in fact people who were more intelligent. That random kid in South Korea who was already studying aerospace engineering. That little girl in Africa building a radio from scrap parts surrounding her. They were different because they were benign and didn't know him, therefore they were irrelevant. Interesting to read about in between cases, but irrelevant all the same.

They weren't Molly Hooper.

Of course, Molly Hooper isn't Molly Hooper, but he was beyond that by then.

He liked Molly. It should have been simple but behind such a simple façade lay great complexities that he was previously unaware of. The first complication to her sweet, shy image was the fact that she was a mother. The second of her living an entire lie brought his world crashing down around him. Who else provided him such stability? Not even Mycroft could boast always being there when he needed a hand. She came along at the tail end of his drug using days, endured his incredibly hateful remarks during withdrawal, and simply continued to help him—to worship him. But this Molly didn't worship him. Frankly, he didn't think she worshipped anyone or anything, not even herself. She existed as something for the universe to push and prod and wait for her reaction. Her reactions were the greatest mystery. Most of the time she was completely logical but if she were, she would have left him to rot by then. So what was Molly Hooper?

She sat down next to him, giving him his coffee as they sat alone in the kitchen at three in the morning. Molly shared his penchant for being sleep deprived, apparently, "We're not going to sleep anymore tonight so might as well." She took a long drink from her cup before sighing, "You've been up in that head of yours for days, what's up?"

"You haven't told me anything."

"I told you. Moriarty's in the area, he's agreed to play a game with me—"

"No. There's something else, I can tell."

Her expression told him he wasn't going to like the next words that came out of her mouth, "He's my brother."

Somehow, Sherlock took this bit of information with a level head, "I see."

"And you thought your brother was bad." Molly laughed a small and bitter laugh with a smile that didn't quite meet her eyes, "Really, if I had taken him out years ago, this all would've never happened. So sorry for that."

"Molly. I hate not knowing what's going on. I'm aware that you are keeping me in the dark out of some misplaced hope that it will protect me but—"

"The problem with you, Sherlock, is that you spring into action much too quickly, expecting your cleverness to save you entirely. What am I doing? I'm making my brother play a game with me. He doesn't trust me, not by a long shot, but knows I won't kill him until I have gathered enough evidence. These past few days I've kept him distracted, and I've almost finished collecting it." She reached over and grasped his hand, "You'll be able to go home soon, Sherlock." And that was when a real and genuine smile crossed her features.

She leaned over and kissed his cheek before leaving for the day. Sherlock wasn't entirely sure when the tables had been turned. Then again, she probably had the upper hand in whatever their relationship consisted of the entire time, even when he didn't know it.

* * *

_"Be quiet, Anna." Parker hissed at his daughter as she trembled where she stood._

_There were all sorts of contingencies that Madeline put in place for them, for their safety, but like most well laid plans, there were things bound to go awry. Sadly Madeline wasn't there to fix it. The door burst open, and Anna shrieked. A gunshot exploded, hitting Parker squarely in the chest. Another shriek, and more confusion, and for some reason Vincent wasn't crying in his crib. Anna took the phone and stumbled into the washroom, locking herself in and calling the police. It was too late anyway. She climbed through the window, keeping the nice woman on the phone until she was at her neighbor's house, banging on the door._

_The scent of blood and the sound of the gun still filled her senses, overwhelming her completely. Mom came in an hour later, holding Anna's hand throughout the police's prying questions and prying eyes, but her blank faraway stare told the child that her mother wasn't there, not really. The burglar was apprehended, but somehow he escaped, and was found within hours with a bullet in his head and two in his chest._

* * *

They had something almost domestic established in the home of Abigail Pyne. Anna would entertain herself throughout the day, while Sherlock worked with Molly as much as she would allow on certain plans. Otherwise they behaved like normal people, going out to the grocery store and cooking dinner, doing the laundry and getting an earful for forgetting to make the beds. Molly decided that she liked an abnormal normal. It gave her a false sense of security, and the calm before the storm. Late at night she would whisper with Abigail, different plans for different problems should they arise. Molly loaded and unloaded her Glock, the repetitive motion putting her at ease. The door slowly peeked open, revealing Anna's small pale face.

"Mommy?"

Immediately, Molly put the gun to the side, "Yes, darling what is it?"

"Can…can I sleep with you?"

Molly bit back any comment about her age and shifted to the side of the queen sized bed, holding up the covers. Gratefully, Anna climbed into bed next to her, laying down and curling up in a small ball like she did when she was a toddler, wedging in between Molly and Parker after a particularly nasty nightmare. Molly never asked, and Anna never told, embarrassed about her illogical response to the terrors that haunted her at night or the circus monkeys that kept her brain awake.

"Did you know that there is an average of eight insect legs in a candy bar?" Anna whispered after a moment.

"Hmmm extra protein then, I suppose." Molly replied quietly readjusting.

"Yeah. Also McDonald's chicken nuggets are made out of the crappiest parts of the chicken."

"That I did know."

"I also taught myself shorthand today, two different versions. It's called stenography officially."

"I'm sure that will be useful when you go to university, there's lots of notes to take, not all of which will be on computer."

"Will I go?"

"Course. I bet you'll find it positively boring, but it will open up lots of doors, and let's face it, it's always good to have a degree to fall back on if the more fun stuff doesn't work out."

"Always have plans B through Z and if that's not enough switch to Greek." Anna burrowed closer to Molly.

"Very good."

When she was little, Anna would do this nearly every night she was kept awake by the thoughts and observations constantly swirling around her head. Intelligence far beyond maturity had always been a problem for her, as well as her disconnect between intellect and emotions. Parker and Molly did their best to let her study what she wanted and took her to museums and aquariums on the weekends, and spoke to her in different languages, but still at the end of the day, Anna was alone during school without a single soul to talk to.

Really, it was the least she could do to share a bed with the child too clever for her own good.

Absently, Molly stroked the curls at the back of Anna's neck, "You've been such a good lovely girl about all this, darling. I'd been angry if I were dragged around at your age."

"At my age you were being dragged around by an assassin determined to make you his apprentice."

"Fair point. I always forget little details like that." Molly smiled, kissing her head, "It's very nearly over, and I think when that's done, we can be Pynes again. Where would you like to live?"

Silent for a moment, Anna finally gave her reply, "I like London. It's exciting, and near the rest of Europe. I also made a friend—at school that is. Her name is Fiona Weiss. I didn't tell you because I didn't know for sure, but after cutting off communications, I realized that our behavior did resemble friendship and that I miss her."

"Well I'll be damned." Molly laughed, giving her a squeeze, which Anna returned a little less enthusiastically. "London it is."

"Hell yes!"

"Please refrain from cursing, Anna. You're above that."

"You do."

"Yes, but I'm not exactly a huge role model, now am I?"

"I wish I was more like you."

"Nah, no you don't. Be happy the way you are, Anna. You and Sherlock have loads of fun scanning strangers. I can't do stuff like that."

"But you notice feelings more."

"Yes. It's useful, I suppose." Molly didn't know where this conversation—this completely honest conversation—was going, but she decided that she would forge bravely into the unknown. She was never very good at lying to Anna anyway. "I'm going to turn off the light now. Keep talking if you want, but we should at least pretend like we're trying not to be insomniacs." She reached over and turned off the lamp, plunging them into almost complete darkness.

"It's all my fault, Mommy." Molly immediately knew she was referring to the deaths of Parker and Vincent.

"No, darling. Never."

* * *

_"Jaime, what are you doing?" She walked gingerly over the rocks to sit down next to him._

_He was poking and prodding at a dead squirrel. She could tell it had been sick and drug itself onto the boulder before dying. She didn't feel particularly sympathetic for the creature, but she didn't like how Jaime was messing with it either, "Da wants me to go to boarding school. Says he can't handle a lad like me." Jaime practically spat, which was odd, as he very rarely displayed anything other than boredom or amusement._

_"Oh. That's not good." She picked up a stick of her own, but instead threw it out into the water below._

_"Yeah. I'll be gone in a month."_

_"I'll miss you."_

_"You're lying!" Suddenly Jaime was gripping her by the shoulders, and she found herself at his mercy. Whether or not he embraced her or threw her off the cliff was completely up to him unless she talked him out of it and quickly._

_"I will though! I'll have no one else to play with, Jaime, I'll miss you and I don't want you to go!" His eyes roved across her face, trying to detect a lie. Sensing none, he drew her into a tight embrace. She didn't belong broken at the bottom of the cliff anyway, even if she was boring._

_"I'll talk to Da, kay?" She murmured into his shoulder. "No one will take you away from me. I'd miss my big brother too much."_

_An hour later she stood resolute before her father, Jaime eavesdropping from behind the door, "Da please don't sent Jaime away! I don't want him to leave!"_

_"He broke your arm! Don't you know the severity of the situation, love? He's not normal!"_

_"Da please." **Please understand that he will do much worse if I fail to keep him close and by my side. Please understand that he will punish me if I fail! **_

_"No I—"_

_"It was an accident Da, I was being stupid and he tried to help me. It was all a big accident." _

_"Well I suppose…."_

_Jaime embraced her for the second time that day, holding her so tightly that she thought she might suffocate. She had won that battle, kept him under control for that long. She felt bad, sometimes, for having fantasies about pushing him off that cliff, and watching his bones shatter and his limp body be carried away by the current._

_"Thanks, sis. Never thought I'd be glad you're a daddy's girl."_

_"You're my brother; of course I want you to stay." _

* * *

"Molly, why are you helping me?" They had been sitting, enjoying their morning silence when Sherlock found himself asking that question. She seemed more than eager to answer, oddly enough, perking up at his voice.

"Two reasons; first off, my employers, including your brother, very much prefer you alive." Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the mention of Mycroft, "Secondly, there is one thing that I have in common with Molly Hooper; sentiment." She leaned over and gave him a small peck on the cheek, "Look at me. I'm practically the embodiment of sentiment. If it weren't for it, I'd practically be dead by now." She murmured against his cheek, before catching his chin and kissing his at first unresponsive lips.

Before he could fully respond (oddly enough he felt particularly eager, Molly had pulled away, and returned to shopping for dresses (dresses of all things—designer dresses like Tony Burch and Tracy Reese, the sort that were in the hundreds to purchase, was she planning something or does she like shopping like most boring women?) How did he even know those brands? Oh wait, a case. That information really should have been deleted.

"I like shopping." Molly gave an answer before she said anything, "Usually I can push aside my penchant for expensive designer clothing and shoes, but I like it when I have an opportunity to wear them. Odd for a tough ex-assassin/spy huh?"

Sherlock smirked, "It's probably the only thing normal about you, Not Molly Hooper."

He didn't know what the kiss before meant, although he found himself delighted at the prospect of doing it again. Sherlock did, however, understand the significance of Molly sharing something as insignificant as her love for designer fashions. It was something genuine and truthful that now knew about the complex person behind all of the layers. From this, he knew that someday he might possibly gain her real name, not that it mattered. She was Molly to him. Wordlessly, he took her hand, and she threaded her fingers between his, giving a small squeeze before continuing their companionable morning silence.

* * *

His sister knew him astoundingly well, and had planned her clever trap with grace and dignity. It was clever of her, to use an old Chinese construction book as the basis for riddles, and even more clever to leave Sherlock Holmes out of the loop. He couldn't gain any information about her next move from the man's reactions, from his expressions as he walked the street almost blindly in search for adventure. Sherlock was good at showing, not hiding. After he had cut loose the victim that Molly so cleverly put in the scaffolding of a new building, and helped her down to the panicking parents and police, he decided to call her.

"It's clever of you, little sis, to make me play the hero. Tell me what do I have to lose if I don't help these insignificant lives? It's not like I care about them."

Her voice came to him like music. She was his sister, his dear, oddly devoted sister returned to him, ready to play. She was playing games this time, and very good at it. She was more than enough stimulation, even surpassing Sherlock. He wondered if losing Sherlock in the mess wouldn't be such a bad thing. He had his sister back, and she was ready to entertain him. "No but if you fail, I'll kill Sherlock Holmes, and I'll disappear entirely, and poor little Jaime will be bored again." It made him wonder if she even cared about that offspring of hers.

His sister was completely insane.

He completely loved it.

**So what did you think? Review if you have it in your heart! Remember 80-85 before I update again (mainly because that benchmark will make me almost as happy as 100) and reviewers get imaginary cookies of their choosing!**

**Also believe it or not, that was the first bit of romance I have ever tried writing. How did I do?**


	14. Chapter 14

**Oh my stars you're all going to hate me. My computer decided to take a dump (of the info variety) and the next three chapters did not survive. I was going to post on Monday, but I had to rewrite. The I DEMAND 80 reviews was mainly to see how many I could get before the next publishing date (A week from the last post is supposed to be the norm) I got damn near close, but I felt like this was long overdue.**

**Also you're going to hate me for this chapter.**

**Enjoy!**

Sentiment damned her. It really did. She sighed, stroking Sherlock's hair absentmindedly as she read her book, trying to calm herself. She knew that if he were awake, he would be able to feel her nervous and erratic heartbeat. There were simply some things that could betray even the best of actresses to those who were observant enough in nature. The Holmes family was notorious for that so making both friends and enemies were dangerous waters and murky waters. Really, Molly wished she could live out in the open, have absolutely nothing to hide, except for, of course, her body count. That never was a good topic for conversation. It was because of sentiment that she had gotten herself into this mess, because of sentiment that it has continued and finally because of sentiment that she might actually fail.

She might not make it out alive this time.

Slowly, she sifted through her thoughts and memories like boxes of DVDs and mementos, not even seeing the page of the book anymore. She saw her mother murdering her father over the affair—_her fault—_she saw herself in the rain, giving a cigarette to the man who would teacher much of what she knew—_her fault—_She saw her brother standing on a cliff the one time she had an opportunity to get rid of him—_won't fuck that up again—_she saw meeting Parker, and what followed that. She saw herself heartbroken—_her fault, although you didn't know it at the time—_sitting there, physically and mentally incapable of keeping _her _from taking away her surviving child. She saw herself trying to figure a way out and the day she thought she finally had it; the day Robert told her she had been burned.

No. This was much worse. Being burned suggested that she would not be paid in full and wouldn't get any contacts. She would have been able to track down Anna within a couple months without it. No she got her money _and _a bonus. She got her contacts restored, and access to the top governments of the world, making it even easier to walk in and out unnoticed. Through Mycroft, Molly had obtained her daughter and hope that some form of uncomfortable homeostasis would occur. It actually would have if it weren't for two things.

Sentiment. Molly wanted blood.

Jaime, or as he liked to be called Moriarty.

The situation only grew more complicated with the fact that her affection for Sherlock Holmes was growing as well as actually, really, truly genuine. This mess was supposed to be avoidable, however, she figured that even if it could be difficult, she would just let go. No, she would no longer accept money to watch Sherlock. She would go back to London and walk her daughter to school until Anna was old enough to realize she didn't want that. She would dispose of Moriarty and simply let go of all of her other grievances in order to ensure peace and possibly her own personal happiness. She never thought much about that before. It had always been about someone else. Her father, her mother, her brother, her husband, her children, Sherlock, Mycroft, Robert, Jane—oh the list went on and on, but she never once stopped and examined what would make her happy.

She didn't know if she could actually let go.

* * *

_Theodore Aismov leaned against the brick wall of the alley, smoking his last cigarette. It was burning too quickly for his taste, practically reeking with its cheap make. It went out and he threw it to the ground, crushing it against the wet pavement beneath his steel toed boot. He sighed, pondering the ten in his pocket, and whether or not he should get another box. That required leaving post, though, and he was waiting, simply waiting for the target in his picture to go walking past._

_"Here." Suddenly there was a little girl, dressed in a bright pink raincoat, offering him a cigarette, peeping out of the box._

_Nodding gruffly, he took one, watching her as she leaned against the wall as well, "Where your parents, kid?"_

_"You're Russian." She stated, blatantly ignoring his question, "Let me try. 'Where are your parents, kid?' How was that?"_

_"Sound like a little Moscovite." He wasn't lying either. The kid did have a knack for the accent._

_"Good. I'm glad." _

_"Try making that word sound more like Vlad, like the name. Vlad the Impaler."_

_"G-lad." _

_"Better." He took a whiff of that cigarette, his eyes still darting past her, "Look kid—"_

_"Frank O'Leary just turned that street over there." She pointed, "He's been tipped off by that one man in the dark blue Italian suit but the shoddy shoes."_

_"Oh. Well shit. It wasn't that big of a hit anyway—" it was only then that he realized that he had garnered this information from a small girl in a pink raincoat. Again, where were her parents? "Listen kid, I think you should go home now—"_

_"My parents are dead." Her voice was flat devoid of all emotion. "My extended family thinks I'm dead too. I want to keep it that way. I don't like them."_

_"Who are you?"_

_She looked up at him, her wide brown eyes already closed off, not displaying any emotion. It was a look he was used to in soldiers or even prostitutes, but not one he could say he ever saw in a child "Teach me how to kill people and you can name me whatever you like."_

_He ended up naming her Masha, short for Mariya. She looked like a Mariya to him, and Masha became his little apprentice. Really, she was a sweet, smart little girl who took up everything she learned hungrily, questioning him every step of the way, demanding explanations for things he never even thought of considering. Masha skipped along his side cheerfully, adding a whole new guise to his persona. Theo could easily pretend to be a wealthy man and she was his pretty little daughter. Those innocent eyes got him access to more hits than him alone. _

_He still felt although heartbroken, strangely proud, when she approached him years later, baby in her arms, and told him never to speak to her again._

* * *

In the present, Theodore Aismov was an accountant. Of course, he was a corrupt accountant pocketing funds and messing around with the books for bonuses, but he was still an accountant with a nine-to-five job a 401K and a Labrador retriever that he walked in the mornings and evenings. He lived in a flat in Dublin, and spoke with a slight Russian accent, in order to make the more long term permanent cover easier to swallow. It made sense for a long term resident of Ireland with a Russian upbringing to curse in the language, or cut bread instead of break it, or step out of doorways in order to shake people's hands. He sat typing his report, seemingly oblivious to the word around him as he worked two hours of overtime. Still, trained eyes roved the windows and doors every once in a while, and he noticed when a figure that didn't belong slip into the office. His hand went to the letter opener.

"Don't." It was a voice that he never thought he would hear again.

Slowly, he turned around; facing Masha with a small waning smile "I thought my Masha never wanted to see me again."

"You spoke with my daughter. I thought you didn't take hits anymore."

"Nostalgia, you could say. Wasn't actually going to do it, that woman was sweet. Your little girl is so beautiful although she doesn't take much after you, little Masha." He let himself take in the sight of Masha, gone from his life for eleven years. She was leaner, had lost some of the muscle density she garnered at the height of her career, and somehow softer around the edges. She didn't spend the past eleven years scowling, yelling, or setting her mouth in a straight line as she pulled the trigger. Her fingernails were manicured but short, suggesting that she had a job requiring her hands, but it wasn't too strenuous. She did not have the same spark she had when she left him for what was thought to be the last time. "What happened, Masha?"

Masha frowned, sitting down in the black pleather chair on the other side of his desk, "I'm a bad person."

"Good people don't kill for money." He nodded thoughtfully, not agreeing or disagreeing with her exact statement. Masha or whatever her name was at that point was a complicated individual that he found hard to categorize under "bad"

"I haven't killed for money in almost twelve years."

"Then you're doing well. Enjoying being the little housewife?"

"My husband—and my son—I had a baby boy—were killed."

"Accident?"

"They said it was a robbery gone wrong."

"What they said and what happened are two very different things, Masha."

"…I tried. GOD DAMN IT I TRIED! I cut off all ties with everyone, with _you _even! I did all the nice things you're supposed to do when you're pregnant, I got married! I got along with my impossible mother in law! I was perfectly content being _normal." _Masha stood up and began pacing, and Theo watched her, smiling at she lost the semblance of self-control she had, and simply ranted, "I was a librarian! I volunteered at the hospital on weekends! I loved my husband so much, you have no idea how much and then—and then—and God fucking damn it!" Masha shrieked, flinging the chair she previously occupied at the wall, "DAMN IT! DAMN IT! DAMN IT! DAMN IT!"

"Mariya sit!" Theo barked out, and where Masha simply turned towards him, sagging, all the rage escaping her as quickly as it came.

"Theo…revenge is complicated. It's like the more you get in, the more you figure out what hurts, the less you want to hurt them, or more likely those around them." Masha sat on his desk, plucking up a paper and letting her eyes scan it, "I'm lost, Theo. I don't know what to do. My brother's back and I have to kill him before he does something despicable but…."

"You're about to do something despicable too."

"An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth…."

"My Masha." Theo stood, wrapping his arms around the woman, finding that she was trembling beneath his touch, "You will do something. Right or wrong, you shall do something. You will not run and you will not sit idle. Do something, and know you still have my love, my little Masha." He kissed her cheek, "I'll be right here if you need anything."

Masha brightened up suddenly, showing the sort of air one had when they were suddenly struck with an idea, "Oh you're brilliant!"

With that she dashed out the door. Moments later, she remerged, "Thank you Theo. Stick to accounting. Don't worry the live feed shows you sitting and being boring."

* * *

_I'm ready for another game. You make the first move. I'm waiting—your dear sister._

* * *

Molly returned at precisely eleven thirty two, being gone no less than forty-seven hours fifty minutes, and twenty eight seconds. Such details were quite pointless, but Sherlock kept them nonetheless. She didn't smell like blood when she gave him a hug, but there was a man's cologne on her. She also seemed happier than she had been in ages, reflecting the Molly he thought he originally know. She almost skipped throughout the house, helping Abigail clean and chattering to Anna in a Chinese dialect to help her practice. Why they needed to know a practically useless dialect (how useful was Cantonese anyway?) he couldn't fathom, but he could assume it was to keep Anna from getting bored without schoolwork.

"Sherlock, you're sitting in your mind palace again." He woke to have Molly with legs in his lap and a sandwich, "It's getting boring. Eat."

"I don't—"

"Now."

Sherlock sighed, taking a small bite of the sandwich, "What's going on?"

"Moriarty will make a play against me. It's his turn." She muttered, drawing closer to him, "He'll probably lead me back to Ireland, to our childhood home." He let his hand rest limply on hers, "You and Anna will go back to England first flight tomorrow. I've given enough to Mycroft for you to clear your name. It will be a scandal for a bit, but it'll die down eventually." Giggling cheerfully, Molly placed a kiss on his cheek.

"I'm going with you." Sherlock stated, not understanding why she inferred that he would not be coming along, "He's Moriarty—"

"Sorry mate; I have dibs on your nemesis." Molly ruffled his hair, "I'm coming with you, and then I'll just take a flight to Ireland. Alone." Her tone changed on the last word before she curled up closer to him, ready to ignore any argument—logical or otherwise—that Sherlock had to offer.

* * *

Anna was bored. Sherlock and her mother were off doing halfway couple like things—or hunting down someone—either way having more fun than she was at that particular moment. While she was pleased to be back in London, she wasn't allowed to leave the apartment—flat it's a flat. Why on earth do speakers of the same language insist on having so many different words for one thing? Look at washrooms. Why does everyone have a different way of saying: Place where you shit.

Washroom.

Bathroom.

Loo

Water closet.

Restroom.

Oval Office.

Latrine.

GOD DECIDE ALREADY!

Okay, so maybe she was taking her anger out on poor harmless words for the shithouse, but it still wasn't fair. She was smarter than most adults, yet her tiny body declared that she was unable to help her mother get rid of her totally insane uncle. There was also the fact that she was still terrified. She was scared that everything nice would be ripped away again. She jumped at the sound of knocking at the door. Silently she crept up to it, looking through the peephole.

"I know you're in there Anna Pyne." Moriarty spoke, and she frowned before sighing and opening it.

"Isn't killing me against the rules?" She tried to hide her fear, burying it deep into another person like her mother did.

"Kidnapping isn't." He smiled in return, "You're blind faith in your mother is amusing. I would like to see if she behaves predictably."

"And what would that be?"

"She said she would kill Sherlock Holmes if I touched you. Kidnapping is under that umbrella. I want to see if she'll do it, or if she'll be boring and try to find a third way."

"I have no doubt Mom will save me." Anna relied cautiously, "Let me grab my coat."

"Don't bother escaping out the windows or anything, I have men all around the building." He called inside, an odd little laugh following it.

Taking her mobile, he shot a text, and returned it to Anna: _The game. You know where to go. And you know what you'll do._

Instantly, Anna received a message. "_I'm coming, sweetheart."_

* * *

Sherlock stood in front of his grave, Molly tucking her hand in his, "It's over, Sherlock."

She seemed particularly sad about it, and when she checked her texts, she visibly paled, "What is it, Molly?" He asked and for the first time he was the one to initiate contact, putting a hand on her shoulder.

"The game is almost over." She seemed particularly sad, "And my brother seems to have fallen right into my trap. He also seems to underestimate me still." She turned towards him, kissing Sherlock deeply and in the process he felt something press up against his stomach, "I'm sorry. I really actually am sorry."

She pulled the trigger, and Sherlock's world exploded in pain. He slumped, falling to the ground, watching Molly's retreating footsteps. The strangest part was that she actually did seem remorseful. Vaguely he heard the scream of a woman, a bystander no doubt, but he focused on where Molly stood until he lost consciousness.

* * *

Molly sat on a plane traveling to Dublin. From there she would have to take a car. Sighing she called the first number, receiving Theo's voicemail, "I've made my choice."

Then she calle Moriarty, "Unless somebody was nearby (doubtful, I searched it) Sherlock Holmes is dead. DON'T FUCK WITH ME!"

To Mycroft, she simply wrote: _Please excuse the mess at his grave._

As the plane was about to take off, she sent one final text: _A son for a son._

"Miss?" The flight attendant was standing there, holding out a tissue.

"Oh what is it? Is there something on my face?"

"No, uh miss, you're crying."

Her hand rose up to touch her face, and sure enough she felt the tiniest smudge of wetness, "Oh. Well contacts are slipping, thank you!" She cheerfully took the tissue and wiped, hiding her frown beneath the paper. "An eye for an eye." She whispered, "A tooth for a tooth. A son for a son…." Revenge and killing her brother showed that it would be a day for blood. It was a shame Sherlock had to go first. Crying…she was crying.

**There I did it. Not too painful right? Reviews! I love reviews! Even if you wish to set fire to my emotions and rip my heart out!**


	15. Chapter 15

**Before more panicking ensues, Sherlock is not dead. I actually intended for this next bit to go into the last chapter, but I found it too long and it doesn't end on such an excellent note. I also realized that a lot of authors have NO idea how gunshot wounds work, look, get treated, and well hurt. I've tried to be accurate, and have chosen a left side with an exit wound for his could be fatal nonfatal injury, due to the organs there…I really overthink this stuff don't I? **

**Anyway this chapter's a bit short because I've been sick as of late, so that means there should be two or three chapters to go after this.**

_I know what you're going to do._

_Do you now?_

_I don't condone it._

_I didn't think you would. I did take that aspect into consideration thank you._

_This warpath you will cut, is it worth it?_

_To destroy my brother? To bring you to your knees? Totally._

_I hope you don't come to regret it._

_Quit your wise woman shit, we both know how this is going to end._

_Do I? Well I hope that reality gives a better scenario._

_In all likelihood it won't._

_I asked you to protect him._

_I asked you to protect ME. That didn't work out so well either, if I can recall._

_No one was meant to get hurt._

_You know what they say about the road to hell…._

_Don't do it. Please._

_Oh be merciful? Maybe. Possibly. I don't know yet. _

_If you don't kill him I'll let you go. You can disappear, and no one will ever try to find you again._

_Too late. Ever hear of Hammurabi's Code? An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth…._

_A son for a son._

* * *

Being shot is not pleasant.

When Sherlock came to, that was his first thought. His second noted the tiled hospital ceiling, slightly stained by a water leak and with one tile newer than the rest. His mind was hazy, but he still remembered what happened, he remembered an exhausted and exasperated looking Molly, and he remembered her pressing up against him, distracting him from the fact that she was about to pull the trigger. Her retreating boots were what got to him the most, blood red soles growing smaller and smaller as she left. Then there was a scream. Without much trouble, Sherlock pieced together what brought him to this place with an aching pain in his side.

"Oh good, you're awake." It was a man—his voice was familiar, "I'm Robert, a friend of Molly's. I think I gave you a concussion once."

Ah yes, the infamous kidnapping suddenly made much more sense, "So Molly's in Ireland."

"Yes."

"She shot me."

"I would've thought someone like you would have gauged the obvious, yes, she shot you. She told us to wait nearby in case you were alive." Robert shrugged, "Said we could do whatever with you. Jane insisted on taking you to the hospital, being the sweetheart she is, so congratulations, you just cheated death. If I had my way, I would've finished you off, but you did serve your purpose and you were legally dead for a bit so yeah, Molls still wins."

"Wins against whom?"

Robert's expression clouded, "Well, that bitch of a mother, of course."

With that, he stood up and walked away, leaving Sherlock and his drug addled mind to try to figure out what the hell was going on.

* * *

_"Keep steady, be sure your legs are forming a four shape, yes that's prone position, it is extremely stable and allows you to keep hidden and roll away quickly in case of fire." Theo murmured in Masha's ear, guiding her hands along the rifle, "You have your target in sight."_

_"Who is he?"_

_"A man who is about to die. Breath in and exhale as you pull the trigger, you got a visual yeah?"_

_"Clear shot." Masha peered through the scope, and watched as the man bent down to pick up his two year old son. She waited a moment longer, feeling Theo stiffen beside her. When the man put down the child, she pulled the trigger._

_"Most would be displeased with doing that in front of a child."_

_"He's two. He won't remember." She was packing up before they could detect the source of the gunshot, as people flocked around the fallen man._

* * *

Molly tapped her nails on the armrest, occasionally feeling Theo glance at her. She waited for the question he would eventually ask patiently, "What will you do, Masha, when this is all over?"

"If I live and everything turns out nice and cheery?"

"Yes, yes let's make that an assumption."

"Well under that assumption, no one would dare touch me no matter who or what I am. So I'm thinking a nice posh place in central London with a garden, getting Anna back in school—she has a friend, I'm so proud—and the worst thing I do from then on out is occasionally have an overdue book."

"Sounds boring."

"Domestic tranquility generally is." Molly rolled her eyes.

"I still don't get it. If you cleared Holmes's name and protected him all of these years, why the hell did you shoot him?"

"I have a personal vendetta with his mother. It's been going on since I was nine."

"Is that why you sought me out, then? I thought it strange for an orphan to immediately leap to the conclusion that she needed to become a contract killer."

"I needed to know how to kill, and what can I say? I enjoy the finer things in life, and you don't get fine things in care. But Violet Holmes doesn't know it yet, but the game is over, whether or not Sherlock lives or dies, and whether or not she races up to me and slaps me with all her strength, or whether or not I even live. I've won. How boring."

"Stop talking about dying, little Masha, I'm barely gray as it is. No Papa wants to hear about his little doch dying before him."

"Ты не моя папа" Molly leaned across the seat and hissed in his ear. (you're not my papa)

"But I'm the closest thing you've got." Theo's low rumbling laugh caused Molly to flinch. She supposed he was right about that. At that moment she spotted two figures on the cliff beyond the remains of her childhood home, "Stop here, Theo. I'll walk now." She took her gun and put it in her waistband at the small of her back, "Anna should get over here soon. Wish me luck."

"We don't have luck, little Masha."

* * *

_Madeline wondered when she developed a conscience. It must have been a little before she met Parker—no literally an hour before she met him. She was walking to the drugstore to buy Theo some cigarettes. It was his weakness, a nasty habit she never wanted to take up. There was a girl—woman—she didn't care—screaming. The woman was screaming, and she saw her clearly in the alley, her clothing being ripped by violent artless hands trying to take what they didn't deserve. This moment was the catalyst for all that followed. Before she knew it, she had pulled the rapist away and threw him against the wall, feeling his gun on her thigh—feeling it go off—feeling his blood on her hands as she cut his neck. The girl gasped, trying to maintain the remainder of dignity and simply ran._

_It must have been then when she worried about a woman she never met, who meant absolutely nothing to her, and killed a man who had hurt others and would hurt others and would continue to hurt, justifying his atrocious behavior with various circular logics. She was in pain, and sent stumbling blindly towards a future that no one could have seen coming._

* * *

"I believe we have been genetically inclined to be like this from the start. Your mother is a homicidal maniac, I'm a sociopath, our mother was bipolar and our father committed adultery numerous times. I wonder how you will turn out, my little niece. Will you be like me? Will you be like your dear mam?" Moriarty laughed, gesturing wildly at his surroundings, appearing more unhinged than before.

"I will be me." Anna replied, staring down the cliff side and into the water crashing against the rocks and forming foam, "...I'm not empty like you." She kicked her feet, smiling as a piece of debris fell, "I'm not irrational like the grandmother I never met, and adultery sounds like too much effort. Then again, I'm eleven so I haven't quite developed that facet of my life yet."

"And your mother?"

"She's not a homicidal maniac."

"She beat Sebastian Moran to death with a lawn chair, shot your grandmother, set our childhood home on fire, killed several political leaders, and the final thing to add to the list is that she killed Sherlock Holmes. Obviously, she's willing to destroy anything that gets in her way. Maybe even you." Moriarty was trying to taunt her, but Anna wouldn't let herself be perturbed. She could handle this, she would handle it for her mother and everyone else, even if she failed in such an endeavor years ago. Moriarty was beginning to become irrational, oddly enough idolizing her mother for his perception of her bloodlust. Anna had to remain calm, and wait for Mom to come. That's all she had to do.

"Do you do this a lot?"

"Do what?"

"Kidnap eleven year old girls and monologue to them." It was odd how she could say this so calmly, simply pretending to be Mom. Her Mom wouldn't shrink away from this man so why should she? She was also channeling Sherlock in a way, trying to remain purely logical for the time being.

"It's never been a habit, no." Moriarty laughed, clapping her on the shoulder, "I have this cliff rigged with explosives the moment my heart stops beating, so let's hope that you're right about your mother not being a homicidal trigger happy maniac, shall we?"

"Sherlock's not dead…he can't be. You're lying." Anna suddenly remembered that detail, and felt her brain haze over a bit. Mom—no she wouldn't, she couldn't Her mother liked Sherlock—no she loved Sherlock why would she kill him—_But she loves me more…between me and Sherlock…I win._

"Afraid not. Shame. I really didn't think her mother had it in her, but it seems like she's perfectly capable of carrying out such a threat." The crunch of gravel alerted Anna to her mother's presence, and as she looked up at her, Anna could see the woman that Mom always tried to hide from her; the killer on the hunt.

By then, all pretense of acting brave was gone as Anna sank to her knees. Someone else was dead because of her.

* * *

John Watson couldn't say that the past eighteen months were all that fantastic. His best friend leaping to his death being the exact low point of the time, he suffered many smaller injustices. Molly Hooper randomly deciding to leave St Barts was what caused him the greatest amount of confusion. The last time he saw her, she was standing between him and Sherlock's dead body, giving him a small, warm, _understanding _smile. Why wasn't she falling apart? She didn't even fall apart at the funeral, where she and her daughter stood right next to each other, her gloved hand gripping an umbrella in the downpour. Then suddenly she was gone without a forwarding address, with only a few vague emails to satisfy him. John had always assumed that it was her way of mourning Sherlock.

He floated through life until the moment he was walking down the street, and got a call from Mycroft in one of the payphones, "My brother is alive. St Barts hospital."

For the first time, John simply ran, abandoning the cane to simply run. He had no idea what this meant or how it could be—_he saw Sherlock fall after all—He saw the body—_but John still ran. He ran into the hospital only to see Anthea, who lead him up to a room. Sitting in the bed and very much alive was Sherlock Holmes. He seemed a bit gaunt, a little worse for wear, but he was alive. John curved the urge to punch the smug bastard in the face upon seeing him and seeing his chart.

"You were shot."

"Yes. I'm glad you didn't go through the 'you're alive' bit, but still a bit obvious I was shot." Sherlock grinned and then winced, "Still trying to figure out why exactly she shot me."

"Who shot you?"

"Molly Hooper. Well not Molly Hooper—she's a bit of a complicated mess if I may say so myself—Molly shot me in front of my grave."

"Wait? Molly the tiny pathologist that worked here and did your post mortem?"

"Molly the tiny pathologist who is actually a recon specialist who helped me fake my death, sister of James Moriarty, and who has some sort of long standing feud with my mother. She shot me but left me alive, and has gone off to kill her brother and do who knows what else because I cannot tell when she's lying, when she's sincere, and if she ever actually—uggh I don't understand her!" Sherlock groaned, laying back, "She's insane she kissedmethensheshotme!"

All John could do was stand there, his world turned upsidedown once more, staring at the not dead detective, and try to puzzle out those words. Finally he managed to muster a response, and only to the last portion of Sherlock's lacking summary of events, "Well I hope not in that order…."

"Of course not in that order!" Sherlock snapped, "And now I'm stuck here trying to figure out what the hell is going on—and they keep trying to force feed me fruit cups! It's unethical! Oh and of course I'll be here when the whole story breaks and I still have no idea what Molly's going to do, even if I do know where she's going and part of why—"

Suddenly a man walked in behind John, settling down in the chair. He gave John a small smirk before turning to Sherlock, "So everything seems to be going according to plan. Molls said your survival was optional, so it's actually going better than planned. Your brother should be here in approximately an hour, and your mother probably won't bother to show up until Molly does—that is if she comes back. She says that's a bit of an optional thing at this point too."

Sherlock sighed, "What did mummy do to her?"

"Well." Robert said with a relish, "that's a bit of a funny story. Your mummy, not the nicest of ladies in the world I'd say—well she's certainly the most intelligent not nice lady I know." He scowled, "She goaded Molly's mother into killing her father—right in front of her, I might add. Then used Molly for a couple high profile kills a couple years later, and decided to provide incentive for rejoining after Molly faked her death again. She meant for the man to simply break in, but he panicked and fired the gun. Killed her husband and her infant son. She then proceeded to take Anna and get Molly to watch you. Molly feigned ignorance to Mrs. Holmes's involvement and to my knowledge, it seems that her vengeance has been set in motion…at least that's what I've been able to hypothesize."

Sherlock nodded sinking into deep thought; however John was still completely lost, "We're not talking about kittens, rainbows, and chocolate bunnies Molly Hooper right?"

**So I'm not too pleased with this chapter, but I felt obligated to submit it! Sorry about any grammatical errors especially in the Russian bit, I'm not very good at the language yet:D Reviewers are quite welcome!**


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